


The Last Sacrifice

by madeofspace



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Origin Story, Original Characters - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:57:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 68,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofspace/pseuds/madeofspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stared through the open door, wondering where this path would take her. Not just beyond the gates, but where she would ultimately end up. Where could she run to that the Order would not eventually find her? How would she be able to make this journey alone? It took a strong will to make her feet step over the threshold of what would become her new life. The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in her ears and her vision tunneled to the path in front of her…</p>
<p>Daena Feldis, a mage with a troubled past, survives the throes of rebellion in Kirkwall and eventually finds her way to the Conclave at Haven, a place she had hoped never to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Basin of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I have worked on this story for quite some time, and with help from my beta [Aubreyella](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aubreyella/pseuds/Aubreyella), I now have the confidence to share it! Helpful feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

The mountains stood tall, the snowy peaks glistening in the sun. A crisp, cool wind blew lightly through her auburn hair and kissed her round cheeks. Daena Feldis strolled leisurely through the tiny village, tucked away in the Frostbacks. When she arrived at the door of a familiar house, she found it unlocked and pushed it open. A giant mabari hound came galloping toward her and tackled her to the floor, enthusiastically licking her face until it was drenched in slobber.

She giggled and scratched behind the hound’s ears. Pulling herself up to her feet again, she could smell the warm aroma of lamb roasting over the fire. A woman, middle-aged with a mix of grey and auburn hair, stood by the fire, turning the spit.

“It’s about time you showed up, darling. Where have you been? You’re filthy!”

Daena looked down at her dress, which seemed oddly too small for her, to find it tattered and dirty, smears of dirt on her hands and arms. “I was…” She couldn’t remember. “I don’t know. Around, I guess,” she answered with a cheeky smile. “Is supper ready?”

“Almost, but you’ll have none of it until you clean yourself up!” Her mother herded her back to the front door and pushed her out. “Use the basin around back. There should be a bucket of clean water.”

Daena wandered around back, her hound at her heel, and found the basin and a washcloth. Dipping the cloth in the cold water, she scrubbed at her hands, arms, and face until it came away almost black. The harder she scrubbed, the warmer her skin felt, and she could almost see sparks of static dance on her arms. She found it strange, and stared at her arms intensely.

Then she was sitting at the table inside, a plate of half-eaten lamb in front of her, and she could not recall the time between cleaning up and sitting down. Her hound was nudging her thigh, begging for her food. When she looked down, she found a pile of bones already scattered on the floor.

When she had stopped eating suddenly, her mother, and now her father as well, appeared across from her at the table. “Are you feeling alright, darling?” they asked in unison. She stared at them, and their eyes seemed to change color, but only for an instant. It was enough to send a shiver down her spine, but she kept it hidden as best she could. Not wanting to frighten them, she nodded and took a bite of her lamb, chewing slowly.

The food felt strange in her mouth, tasteless and formless. It quickly turned to ash and she coughed and spit it out. Her parents rounded the table and knelt on either side of her. When their hands connected with her arms, her vision flickered and everything changed. Her mother and father were covered in burns, the scarred tissue branching over their skin. It closely resembled lighting, and at the thought, she felt her body hum with warm energy.

The hound also appeared wounded, with bloody gashes and singed fur, but he didn’t seem to feel the pain. Neither did her parents. They all simply stared at her, waiting... _waiting for what?_

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

It was her mabari that spoke, and she nearly screamed. “We want you to be happy. Don’t you want to be happy?” He tilted his head inquisitively. “You can stay here forever. Live the life you always wanted.” He jumped up, placing his front paws in her lap, and licked her cheek.

The absurdity helped her mind to clear. This place, her family, she’d lost them long ago. She trailed back through her memory and found the catalyst: a basin of blue, the liquid cool and sweet on her tongue, the darkness that had swallowed her and spit her out into this place.

“No,” she muttered. “This isn’t real. You all are not real.” She pushed her chair back, breaking free of her parents, the _imitation_ of her parents. Backing toward the door, the dog followed her.

“Why are you leaving?” the creature asked. “I didn’t say you could leave.” As the creature neared her, it grew larger, almost as large as she was. She felt the door behind her, but there was no knob. It had disappeared, becoming nothing more than another wall. Fear gripped her and the switch of fight or flight flipped inside her.

An arc of lightning exploded from her, piercing the chest of the monstrous creature in front of her and branching to the two other figures she left behind at the table. The house, the mountains, her family before her, everything disappeared in a puff of smoke. She found herself in a strange, unfamiliar place. The ground was cracked and dry, and the trees, if she could call them that, were an odd shade of yellow-brown. The sky was a sickening blend of blue and green.

The Fade, she realized. Her Harrowing. Everything had become eerily quiet and still, as if all the air and sound had been sucked out. She drew in a slow stuttered breath to be sure and almost choked when a low sinister laugh echoed around her. Before her appeared the hound creature again, this time its eyes glowing yellow. Her staff appeared at her back, and she wasted no time in wielding it. She was no longer fooled by the illusion of familiarity.

Her body stiffened, every limb frozen. Complete paralysis suspended her motion, and the fear began to build inside her again. The creature approached her, morphing into a cloud of smoke to become another familiar figure. A man, tall and fair-haired, clad in silver. Her heart stuttered at the familiar image. But his eyes were wrong. Instead of golden honey-brown, they were the same sickly yellow as before.

The creature moved in and trailed its cold finger from her temple, slick with sweat despite the chill she felt in her bones, down to her chin. Its nose nuzzled her neck and hair, sniffing avidly, sending chills down her spine. It gripped her arm tightly and whispered roughly to her, its voice ragged, but painfully familiar. “I will have you. It will be slow and painful.” It grazed teeth on her neck, biting hard enough to make her wince, even in her frozen state. “You will fight, and I will feed. I will devour your very soul.”

She wanted to scream, but found no voice. Instead, she focused her attention on breaking free of paralysis. Reaching down inside herself, she gathered all the power she could muster. She felt the familiar buzz bubbling up inside her, filling her limbs, her fingers and toes, her head, until she exploded with lightning. It was enough to free her movement and shock the demon into its true form.

Before her stood a shapely, scantily clad, horned figure. A desire demon. She sighed, relieved to finally know what she was dealing with. Wasting no time, she showered the demon with more lightning, followed by a blast of arctic wind. It froze in place, but only for a moment before it burst from its cold coffin, shards of ice flying in every direction. It slithered forward and grabbed for her, but she spun gracefully out of reach, whacking her staff across its back. It hunched over, but turned quickly, spewing purple fire from its fingertips.

The flames licked her bare arms, and she bit back a scream of pain, denying the demon its pleasure. “Enough of this!” she shouted instead. Another cone of ice shot from her fingers. When the demon froze, she threw every spell she had at it, twirling her staff masterfully before bringing it down on the demon’s head, shattering it into a thousand useless pieces.

She fell to her knees, gripping her burned arms and channeling what little power she had left into a minor ice spell to cool the sting. Her vision blurred as she gasped for breath, her surroundings fading away. She felt weightless, but nothing else. No warmth, no cold, no air. The breath in her lungs was still and a fleeting question of whether she was alive or dead passed through her mind before it became utterly void of thought.

Slowly her senses returned, as if floating to the water’s surface from the depths of a dark ocean. Hard stone pressed against her back, her head aching and limbs heavy, and she faintly recognized the voice of her First Enchanter, Orsino. “...too long. It’s time.”

“Are you sure?” She didn’t know the second voice.

“It’s been hours. She should have returned by now.” His voice was barely a whisper. “We can’t risk a demon getting through. This test must come to an end. Even if that end is...undesirable.” After several seconds of silence, the sharp sound of metal sliding against metal echoed loudly, the sound bouncing around the stone walls of Kirkwall’s Harrowing Chamber. Her eyes flew open at the threat, and she found herself faced with the point of a templar’s sword.

Instinctively, she mind-blasted the templar and all surrounding figures, the offending sword clanging against the stone floor. She scrambled to her feet and crouched into a defensive position, reaching for a staff that was no longer strapped to her back. She growled her frustration and rubbed her hands together in preparation for another offensive spell. No one would take her down, not after what she had just been through, what she had accomplished. She lifted her hands and took a deep breath.

And the breath left her suddenly as she crashed to the ground. She struggled, but managed to flip over to find herself pinned under the same templar that had wielded the sword. He grasped both her wrists in his hands, and she could feel the sharp sting of a smiting, rendering her magic useless. “You will not be free today, demon.” The templar’s voice was cool and steady, though his wide eyes and sweaty brow betrayed his fear.

“I’m no demon, you fool,” she spit back. As if he couldn't hear her, he gripped both wrists in one hand and used the other to draw a dagger from his belt.

"May the Maker have mercy on you." It was a prayer, she realized.

"Maker, get off me! I told you I'm no demon! If I were, I'd have ripped you to pieces by now!" She squirmed and bucked her hips, trying to get free, but he sat heavy with all his righteous armor. He pressed the sharp edge of the dagger against her throat and hesitated. She stilled. He searched her eyes, as if trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing. Her bright green eyes pleaded silently with him, since words had failed. He considered her for a moment and faltered, relieving the blade from her throat and hesitantly releasing her now-bruised wrists. He sat back on his heels, but did not get up.

"Wait!" The First Enchanter came limping over to them, hands waving in the air. "Stand down! She’s not possessed!" His words were redundant as she knew this templar had already come to the same conclusion, or he would have already opened her throat. The templar took one last gaze into her glaring eyes, searching for any hint of true malice, but found none. He stood and backed away, leaving space for Orsino to help her to her feet. "Are you alright?" he asked, clasping her hands and examining her wrists. She nodded silently and took back her hands. "Good," he said, smiling. "You've completed your Harrowing, young one. I'm proud of you." His smile widened. "For now, you need to rest, and we'll discuss what's next for you later. Knight-Lieutenant," he added, waving to the templar that had tackled her. "Please escort Miss Feldis to her new chambers."

The walk back was quiet. The templar stayed one step ahead of her, the perfect position to lead and keep her in his sights, and kept one hand rested on the pommel of his sword. She eyed him ruefully, still sour about being manhandled, and massaged her wrists. The burns she had received in the Fade were gone, but she swore she could still feel the sting. The templar glanced sideways at her, meeting her icy glare. She narrowed her eyes, trying to intimidate him, but his face remained neutral before returning his eyes to the path in front of him. It infuriated her. She bit her tongue to keep from saying something she’d regret. She didn’t need a gauntleted hand print across her face. _Too tired_.

As if the words in her mind were magic, the weakness invoked by the Harrowing and the smiting caught up with her, making her light-headed. She stumbled and clung to the stone wall as her knees gave out from under her. The templar reached for her and she flinched. Many mages had been struck for far less. She almost flinched again when the templar simply rested his hand on her shoulder.

“Are you alright?” She looked up and found the question in the crease of his brow, surprised to see genuine concern. She shrugged off his hand and tried to stand.

"I'm fine," she answered flatly. "Just exhausted." The dizziness returned as she straightened, but the templar caught her arm before she fell again. His grip was firm, but far from the vice it had been in the Harrowing chamber. She distinctly noticed he avoided gripping her wrists, where deep purple had begun to bloom.

“Come on, you need your rest,” he said, pulling her arm around his shoulder and moving his other arm around her waist for support. She pulled away, uncomfortable with the closeness, and he huffed. “Would you rather I carried you?”

She shook her head, and he returned to the supportive position without another word, and walked her carefully to her room. When they had made it to her door, he pushed it open and stepped inside. She pushed away from him, grabbing for the table near the door. “That will do, Knight-Lieutenant,” she said in her strongest voice, straightening her posture as best she could. He nodded and turned to leave, closing the door behind him.

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding and fell hard on the bed, grateful to find soft clean linens and a new pillow. She was out like a light before her next breath.


	2. Price of Privilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Attempted rape/non-con in this chapter.

An elevated status was the first of many perks Daena received as a qualified Enchanter. Full access to more advanced texts in the library, a more powerful staff, and less restriction on her movements within the Gallows were pleasing enough. But her most cherished new privilege was being alone. No more bunking with two or three other apprentices. She had her own private quarters, complete with a generous twin-sized bed and a wash basin. No more armed escorts at her elbows when she needed to relieve herself or visit the library. Templars still stood watch in the halls, but they were less of a hindrance to her activities.

This privilege came with a price, however. Though most of the templars let her be, there were those that followed her when the halls were vacant. She had heard stories among the apprentices, of unlucky individuals who had found themselves alone in dark corners, or down the wrong hallway at the wrong time. Such instances were rare, as apprentices were not allowed to roam about un-chaperoned, but it happened. She’d also heard stories of apprentices who went wandering alone _on purpose_. She found such behavior to be unsettling.

She had always managed to escape the reach of any pursuing templars on such instances, finding her way into an occupied room, or running into a fellow mage around the corner. It was luck, mostly. However, one evening, her luck ran out. The hour was not so terribly late, but the day had darkened enough. The halls were quiet as she made her way back to her room from the library. She hadn’t meant to study so late, but she had lost herself in a particularly interesting tome about various cultist rituals throughout history.

She passed a couple of templars on watch, her mind fuzzy with exhaustion and focused only on climbing into her comfortable bed. When she rounded a corner, the clanging sound of metal footsteps following her shook her from her sleepy haze. Her steps quickened and the metal ones matched her pace. Her eyes darted around the hall, her ears scanning for idle chatter, searching for an open occupied room she could escape to. There was nothing and nowhere. Panic set in and her breath came quicker than her steps, but not the templar’s. A hard gauntlet closed around her bare elbow and she found herself trapped between a cold stone wall and colder silverite plate.   

The templar had the power. She couldn’t use her magic in defense, not without witnesses, and he knew it. She tried to scream for help, but the other gauntlet-clad hand closed over her mouth tightly. She reached up with her free arm and swung a fist at his face, but he was much bigger than she was. He chuckled darkly at her futile attempt at harm and tightened his grip on her arm, making her wince. He leaned in to her ear, his sour breath hot on her neck.

“You scream, and I put you down like the rabid animal you are.” Her eyes narrowed and she grunted her frustration beneath his hand. “ _No one_ will question me if I claim you attacked with blood magic.” She knew he was right. She was alone, defenseless, and this atrocity was going to happen. Hot tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction or the pleasure of it. Releasing her mouth with a warning look, he moved his hands to turn her around and pressed her hard against the wall. “Don’t move,” he whispered harshly at her neck, making her cringe.

He pressed his upper body against her back to hold her in place and lifted her robes to her hips. One hand disappeared as he reached to move his own skirts out of the way, and she considered trying to run. She could push back, throw him off balance and make a break for it. She could try to run for the other templar that had been on watch, but what good would it do? He hadn’t questioned when his partner left his post to follow a lonely mage girl around a dark corner, and hadn’t followed him to stop him either. He wouldn’t protect her, or he would have already.

She closed her eyes tight and tensed her body against the pending violation, trying to swallow her fear. The worst part of it was, she still retained her maidenhood, even at the over-ripe age of five-and-twenty. And this vile creature was about to steal that from her. The very thought ignited a rage that began to overpower the fear. Sparks tingled her fingertips and she clenched her fists. As badly as she wanted to fry this templar in his armor where he stood, it was not worth the life the Order would surely strip from her.

The templar’s hand returned to her hip and she felt his hardened member press against her small clothes. His fingers tore at them roughly and the cold air that hit her bare skin made her clench tighter. He whispered in her ear again. “The harder you fight this, the more it will hurt.” He sounded delighted at the idea. Her heart pounded in her ears as he pressed himself against her, the beat so loud she did not hear the new set of footsteps approach.

The templar’s weight lifted from her back, her robes falling down to her ankles again. She heard the clash of metal as she collapsed to the floor, her legs unstable. Opening her eyes, she found a new templar drilling his fist into the other templar’s face, over and over. Blood exploded from her attacker’s nose and mouth, and he was nearly choking on it. At what she was sure must be the brink of death, the dominant templar ceased his assault and hauled the other to his feet by the collar of his breastplate. Her rescuer leaned in and whispered something she could not hear. He pulled back and said louder, “Report to the barracks, Fredericks.” His voice was cold and bitter. And familiar.

The nearly-broken templar stumbled away quickly, muttering a gargled, “Yes, s-ser.”

The remaining figure turned and knelt in front of her. She was only half-surprised to be met with the same concerned face she had seen the night of her Harrowing. His voice had been unmistakable, but she could hardly believe he was here, reaching out his hand to her.

“Are you alright?” The same genuine question as before creased his brow. When she didn’t answer, he gently probed her arm where the other templar had nearly crushed it, the angry red of her skin quickly turning purple. When she winced, he pulled his hand away. “Come,” he said as he helped her to her feet. “Can you walk?” Her legs were still shaky from shock, but she could manage. She nodded silently, not yet certain she could trust the stability of her voice.

With his arm as support, he led her to the infirmary. She was grateful to find the place empty. The templar disappeared behind a maze of shelves as she sat herself at the nearest table. She took a deep steadying breath, and thought over the last several minutes in her head.

A templar had just tried to sexually assault her. He did assault her, but thanks to the Knight-Lieutenant, she was still intact. _I should have saved myself_ , she thought bitterly. Instead she had cringed and gritted her teeth against the abuse. She was going to take it and hadn’t done a thing about it. Now, here she was, leaning into the support of her savior, another templar. A templar who, not a fortnight ago, had tried to kill her at her Harrowing. _He could have, but he hesitated_. He had the dagger at her throat and could have ended her as quickly as her next breath. But he didn’t.

She was not overly fond of templars, but she understood their purpose. She’d seen the horrors that resulted from mages with too much unbridled power. However, men like Fredericks gave her little reason to trust most of them. This Knight-Lieutenant, this man with a higher station than most, with more opportunity to abuse power, wasn’t like the rest. This templar was different, yet he reminded her of another templar she had known in another time, long ago...

She looked up as the templar emerged from the shelves with a small ceramic jar and a bundle of fragrant herbs. It was the first time she had really _looked_ at him. He was younger than most templars in his position, but she was certain he was at least a few years into his twenties. His build was hard to read beneath the armor, but he filled it out well enough. A dark, curly mop crowned his head, the black tendrils just long enough to brush his forehead and the sides of his face. The shadows on his cheeks and above his lip suggested he had shaved recently, but he could not stay smooth for long. When she finally met his eyes, she found them a dark, stormy grey. A sudden urge to know who he was tugged at her, and she shook her head slightly to erase it.

To her relief, he hadn’t noticed how she stared. He sat in the chair next to her, setting the jar and herbs on the table, and removed his gauntlets. A sharp odor tickled her nose when he opened the jar. “May I?” he asked, motioning for her arm.

“You really don’t have to do this,” she answered, pulling her arm closer to her chest.

"I do." He remained still.

"Why? You didn't do _this_ ," she said, lifting her elbow. "Why are you here at all? What does any of this matter to you?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line and then released a sigh. "I might as well have done that to you." When her face twisted in confusion, he continued. "We've had reports of some templars... _abusing_ their stations, much in the way you experienced tonight. It’s difficult to catch them in the act, but when we do, they are appropriately reprimanded. Apparently the disciplinary action is not a particularly effective deterrent." He paused for a moment and glanced at the purple bloom on her elbow. "This shouldn't have happened."

“But it did, and it will again to some other mage who can’t use her abilities to protect herself without risking her own life. It’s _infuriating_ ,” she growled. As shaken as she had been before, there was no trace of it now. Anger had won out over shock. She released a hefty sigh to calm herself and held out her arm to him. When he didn’t move, she nodded. He scooped the balm onto his fingers and began to apply it liberally to her elbow. The iciness was unexpected and she hissed. “What sort of reprimand do those templars get anyway? A thorough cutting, root and stem? That seems the only appropriate punishment to me.” A deep blush colored his cheeks at her brazen words.

“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “No, nothing quite so barbaric.”

“So what then? What will come of this Fredericks’ actions?” The balm had warmed as he continued to massage it into her skin. The burn left a pleasant tingle in the wake of his fingers, and she bit back a sigh.

“He has been suspended, effective immediately. The Knight-Captain will determine how long the suspension will last.”

She glared at him, dumbfounded. "That's it? He gets a timeout, relieved from duty to sit around and do nothing?" His eyes, which had been glued to his working fingers, raised to meet her heated gaze.

“It’s more than that,” he snapped. “Suspension means he will be relieved of duty, yes.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “But he will also be sent to solitary confinement and denied his daily doses of lyrium.” She stared blankly, clearly not comprehending the significance of the punishment. “You know templars need lyrium to perform their duties?” She nodded. “We templars take lyrium everyday from the time we take our vows to when we meet the Maker. It becomes a part of us.” He released her arm and rubbed his hands together to get rid of the remaining balm, then rested his palms on his knees. “Can you imagine what would happen if you take away something so vital?” She pondered for a moment before shaking her head. “It’s worse than taking away food and water. Headaches, body tremors, delirium, insomnia. The pain is so intense, some templars go mad with suffering.” He paused, gauging her reaction.

“What is the longest any templar has gone without lyrium?” she asked quietly.

“There have been templars that have left the Order and given up lyrium by choice. It is rare, but it does happen. Some go through months of withdrawal sickness, but eventually survive, albeit not un-scathed.”

“And the others?”

“Most return to the blue. They roam the streets doing anything they can to fund their next bottle. Lyrium isn’t cheap. In rare cases, some do not even survive the withdrawal.” Her eyes widened slightly and her lips parted with a quiet gasp. As a mage, she understood she was a ward of the Circle and its templars, bound by the chains of the Chantry laws. She never imagined templars had chains of their own.

“Is the withdrawal really so terrible if suspension does not deter them?” she asked after several seconds of silent contemplation.

“In truth, there are few repeat offenders. The problem lies with first-timers. They know of the consequences, but cannot fathom the severity until they experience it.” His voice was soft, almost sad.

“I see.”

“The hour is late. You should be in your quarters.” He stood and retrieved the bundle of herbs, closing the balm jar. “Come, I’ll escort you.” She nodded and stood, following him to the door.

The remaining walk to her quarters was short and quiet. He opened the door and stood aside for her to enter. When she turned to close the door, she found he had followed her into the room, though he remained at a respectful distance. He placed the bundle of herbs on the table near the door.

“A blend of embrium and elfroot,” he said. “It brews a tea that should help you sleep and heal your arm quickly.” She stepped forward to retrieve the herbs and brought them to her nose to breathe in the scent: floral with a bitter citrus bite.

“Thank you for your assistance, Knight-Lieutenant,” she said, genuinely. He bowed his head and turned to leave.

“Wait,” she called, placing the herbs back on the table. He stopped and turned to her, his brow arching quizzically. “What is your name, Ser?” The question tumbled from her lips before she could stop it.

He looked stunned for a moment, but answered “Wesley.” And after another breath, “Do try to avoid wandering about alone so late.” His tone was not unkind. He looked as if he might say something else, but pressed his lips together and bowed his head. “Good evening.” He turned on his heel and was gone.


	3. A Fine Offering

A fortnight passed and Daena hadn’t seen Fredericks patrolling the halls. Before she hadn’t bothered with remembering the faces and names of most templars, but she couldn’t forget Fredericks. She supposed she never would. Sleep did not come as easily as it once did, but the herbal tea Wesley had provided helped. She wondered how long the suspension would last, and prayed to the Maker she’d never see Fredericks again.

Wesley, on the other hand, caught her eye frequently. He always seemed to be checking patrols down her hallway around the time she emerged from her room each day. She’d catch him popping in to the library from time to time in search of someone he never seemed to find. Even in the mess hall, he would conveniently appear to grab an apple or a crust of bread and cheese at the very same time she was quietly consuming her midday meal. She nearly ran into him on more than one occasion, though he never uttered more than a simple ‘pardon’ to her as he continued on.

She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as if he was watching her. Though she never caught him, she could feel his eyes follow her, but when she looked up, he would quickly avert them elsewhere. Perhaps she had just never noticed him before, and he was performing his duties as normally as ever. She figured that it must all be in her head. Either way, she wasn't sure if she should be grateful or annoyed. If she was being followed, she didn't much appreciate it. But a whisper at the back of her mind told her she could trust this templar, and if trouble arose, she would be relieved to see him.

_Trust a templar?_ She could hardly believe what she was thinking. Over the years, she had found it difficult to trust anyone, let alone one of _them_. There had only been one other before, but that had ended poorly. She’d be a fool to let it happen again.

She was required to perform periodic tests of her abilities. It was necessary to ensure that a mage continued to improve, and to determine if a mage was consistently strong enough to resist the dangers of possession. Today marked her first month as an Enchanter, and at the behest of the First Enchanter, she performed her tests.

And there were so many tests. Hours upon hours of vigorous spell-casting tested her stamina. She was granted a few brief rests during which she could regenerate with water and lyrium. By the end, she could barely stand, fatigue weighing down her limbs. However, she refused to allow her weakness to show, not wanting the First Enchanter to question her resilience.

Using her staff as support, she made her way slowly to the library. She thought herself mad for not simply going to bed, but she hadn't spent any time reading that day. Reading was one of the few joys she could indulge, and she'd be damned if a little fatigue got in the way of that.

Daena had intended to heed Wesley’s advice about not wandering so late, but she craved the peace of the dark corners of the library. If the hour turned late, she would simply leave alongside any other stragglers.

The library was not empty this evening, but it was quiet. She retrieved a book from the ‘Histories and Lore’ section and found her way to her favorite secluded corner, sitting on the cold stone floor, her back leaned against the dusty shelf. She preferred the floor to a table, where it was easier to stretch her legs.

She barely cracked the book and read the first few lines, something about the Alamarri tribes, before her eyes blurred, and she drifted into a heavy slumber.

* * *

The sun peaked over the frosty mountains and flooded her room. She stretched her little arms and legs before scurrying out of bed and to the kitchen. Mother was making a pottage filled with bacon in a cast iron pot over the fire. The sweet and savory aroma blended pleasantly as it reached her nose, making her mouth water. When she attempted to sneak a powdery biscuit from its cooling plate, her mother swatted her away. Father was outside chopping wood for the fire, a sheen of sweat on his brow, despite the chilly mountain air.

Her mabari hound, Bear, named for his enormous size, galloped to her side as she stepped outside to play. “Don’t go too far, little one,” her father called as she took off down the road. “We’ll break fast soon enough.” She smiled at her father and ran into the brush, hiding among the trees. She explored the surrounding woods often, thrilled to find all manner of bugs and other creatures. She was careful to avoid the snares and traps she’d helped her father set, but Bear was big enough to protect her from anything living that might be dangerous. Fear was always out of mind.

Spotting a pile of dead leaves, Bear dove in, rolling and squirming on his back. She giggled and followed him in, rolling in the leaves until she was covered head-to-toe in dirt.

Bear suddenly stood to attention and growled. She followed the direction of his dark eyes to find a wolf crouched low, its teeth bared. She stepped behind her mabari, laced her fingers through the hair that stood straight up on his back, and whispered for him to attack. They had run into creatures like this before, and Bear was always successful in scaring them off, or ripping them to pieces. She stood unafraid in the face of such danger.

But this time, the threat was not so singular. After Bear lept at the lone wolf, a pack appeared around them, silently emerging from the brush. The sudden shift in odds left Bear hesitant and the first wolf lashed out at the mabari with its sharp claws and teeth. She heard her friend yelp, then go silent. She screamed, the fear she had ignored before filling her completely now.

She willed her legs to move and ran for Bear, who was a motionless heap on the ground. The ring of wolves around them closed in as she fell to her knees, throwing her body over Bear to protect him. She gripped him tight and closed her eyes, waiting for the sharp pain of tooth and claw.

Instead, she felt a white hot heat explode from within her. A loud crack filled her ears and a strange static made the hairs on her arm stand on end. A cacophony of yelps followed the crack, as did the putrid smell of burnt fur.

When everything was silent, and the heat within her subsided, she dared to open her eyes. The wolves lay motionless around her, smoke coming off of them. She coughed and realized some of the smoke was coming from beneath her. The fur on Bear's exposed side was singed, and a harsh burn crossed his snout.

Tears blurred her eyes and she screamed for him to wake up. She thought he might still be drawing ragged breaths, but with panic shaking her, she couldn't be sure. Stroking his burnt fur and kissing his head, she whispered a prayer and pleaded for him to be okay.

After several long seconds, she felt a coolness pass through her, a contrast to the heat she had felt before. A blue light seeped from her and enveloped Bear. She could see his gaping wounds stitching together, his burns slowly fading. He whimpered slightly and she kissed him on the head again to soothe him.

When the light faded, he seemed to be completely healed save for some bald spots in his fur. He lifted his head with his tongue hanging out in a wide grin and licked her face. She giggled and squeezed him affectionately.

With panic fading, she became aware of a gathering around her. Several people from the village had flocked to the commotion, including her mother and father. She smiled weakly at them, her body drained of whatever energy had radiated from her. Neither her parents, nor anyone else, smiled in return

Most of them were looking between her and the smoking wolves, but her parents and the Elders of their village were fixated on her. When a stony faced Elder finally approached her, her smile faded and Bear growled low in his throat.

The Elder reached for her arm and grasped it harshly, pulling her to her feet. "You will be a fine offering, _mage_." He said the last word as if it burned his tongue to do so. He began to lead her away when the implication sunk in. She pulled away, struggling to get her arm free, and Bear lunged at the man. He screamed as the mabari's jaws clamped tightly around his forearm, forcing him to release her.

She ran for her parents and threw herself into her father's arms. She begged him not to let them take her, tears streaming from her eyes. A yelp caught her attention, and she crumpled when she saw her friend on the ground surrounded by the half a dozen men it took to take him down. Her eyes widened as the men moved toward her slowly. The Elder glanced to her father with a strange, demanding look.

She felt her father’s hand on her back as he pulled her off of him. When she started to struggle, his hands closed tightly around her shoulders to hold her firmly in place. She looked into his eyes, trying to understand what he was doing. His expression was blank.

The Elder’s hands grasped her forearms and fear gripped her harder than before. She was facing death at the hands of her own people, her own family. The newly familiar white heat exploded from her in a brilliant display of sparks.

* * *

“Wake up!” She could still feel hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her violently. The buzz of her magic tingled the skin of her arms and fingers before a sharp cold pain smothered it. She felt the magic drain out of her and finally opened her eyes wearily. The fuzziness of sleep still blurred her eyes, but she could make out a silver shape tipped with black. Slowly, her vision came back into focus. Wesley was standing over her, his hands firmly on her shoulders, the sharp edges of his gauntlets biting into her skin.

“What…?” she asked confused. Her dream had felt as real as the day itself, and the sudden shift in scenery disoriented her. “Where am I?” She felt his grip on her shoulders loosen and he kneeled beside her.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked with a serious expression, concern in his eyes.

She nodded. “Knight-Lieutenant Wesley.” She took a moment, looking at her hands, her robes, the book in her lap, the staff leaning against a bookshelf. “I’m at the Circle in...Kirkwall.” He seemed satisfied with her answer.

“You fell asleep here. You were dreaming about something. Do you remember what it was?”

Of course she did, but she wished she didn’t. “Just a nightmare,” she answered solemnly.

“Care to elaborate?” His tone was slightly annoyed, and she glared at him.

“No.”

“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to wake you?” He huffed when she shook her head. “Too long. You were stuck in the Fade, and then you nearly exploded with magic, more than I’ve ever felt before.” His eyes were curious, demanding an explanation. She averted her eyes and became suddenly aware that they were alone.

“How did you find me? It must be late, and the library sounds empty. What are you doing here?”

“That nightmare of yours almost caused a catastrophe,” He said, ignoring her question. “Ease my fears that you’ve been possessed, and tell me what happened.” He narrowed his eyes at her, and she swore she saw the corner of his mouth curl up in a smirk. “Or I’ll have to report you to the First Enchanter.”

She rolled her eyes and groaned, “Fine.” After taking a deep breath, she continued, “I was dreaming of the first time I discovered my magic. That was not a good day.”

“What happened?”

“Does it matter? I developed my magic and now I’m here. The end.”

“Somehow I think there is more to the story,” he said quietly as he reached out to steady her shaking hand. She hadn’t even felt the tremble that was currently racking her body. Involuntarily, a blush crept into her cheeks at the gentle way he touched her hand, and she averted her eyes again.

“There is always more to the story,” she said cryptically. “Look, I’m not possessed, and you’re not in danger from me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please,” she implored. Her eyes met his, tears threatening to fall, and he nodded. He helped her to her feet, handing her staff to her for support. “So, I answered your question. Now you answer mine.”

“I’d hardly call that an answer,” he said, amused.

“How did you know to find me here? No one comes around this corner of the library, and everyone is gone anyway.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.

“You hadn’t returned to your room,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I assumed you’d be here.”

“So you _have_ been following me!” She jabbed her finger into the front of his chestplate.

“Pardon?”

“You think I haven’t noticed you watching me, but I have. Everywhere I go, there you are. Why is that? What is so fascinating that--” He clamped his hand over her mouth, and made a shushing motion with the other. She fumed and grumbled beneath his hand, and would have bitten it had it not been encased in silverite. But then she heard the footsteps: quiet, padded. _Not a templar_ , she thought with relief. Well, not _another_ templar.

Wesley peeked around the bookshelf and let out a sigh of relief. “Just a Tranquil,” he said. She glanced at him quizzically, wondering why he was just as relieved it wasn’t a templar. “Let’s get you back to your quarters before someone else finds you where you shouldn’t be.”

“What do you mean ‘shouldn’t be?’ I have every right to be in the library.” He began walking toward the door, and she reluctantly followed.

“Not at this hour of the night, and certainly not unsupervised.”

“I’m not aware of that rule,” she said arrogantly. “I’m an Enchanter now. I’ve earned this privilege from the First Enchanter and the templars alike.”

“Well, the rules have changed.”


	4. Death or Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those reading, leaving kudos, subbing, etc! I was super nervous about sharing this story with anyone, but I'm excited to be posting it now. Here is the next chapter. I plan to post regularly every few days. :)

The rules had changed indeed. Orders had come down that very night from the Knight-Commander that every mage, harrowed and apprenticed alike, was to be locked in his or her quarters at all times, outside of the class schedules. During classes, the number of templars escorting groups of mages from place to place had increased exponentially. They seemed more alert than ever, hands always perched on the pommels of their swords, eyes shifting back and forth across the rooms and hallways. A mage couldn’t sneeze without a templar drawing his sword in response. 

As expected, tensions among the mages were high, and murmurs of a rebellion made its way through the Circle. Daena was all too familiar with this kind of stress. She had originally studied at Kinloch Hold in Ferelden. A group of blood mages led by a power-hungry mage, decided they should be free of the Circle. The Void opened up and nearly swallowed them all whole. Abominations wreaked havoc on the tower, killing anyone who opposed assimilation. 

The Rite of Annulment had been ordered, and had it not been for the Hero of Fereldan, they all would have been executed. As it happened, when the Rite was retracted, all remaining harrowed mages were sent to fight with the Warden and her growing army. Apprentices, such as herself, were transferred to other Circles. 

Now her home was being threatened again, by more potential blood mages. Would they never learn? Many of them were transfers from the same Circle as she. Did they not remember the horror and tragedy of what happened then? She had to admit, the environment here was far worse than that of her previous home. Many of their freedoms, few as they were, had been stripped. Magic was no longer permitted to be used, not even in classrooms for practice. They had been confined to book-learning only. Staves had been confiscated from all mages, as were lyrium potions. Since they couldn’t perform magic, what use were those things to them? 

Many mages frequently came up missing, only to reappear as Tranquils, if they came back at all. Tranquility was supposed to be a last resort in extreme cases of unstable magic. The number of Tranquils that had appeared in the past few weeks was staggering. The Harrowing process had also been suspended indefinitely. Mages had become nothing more than prisoners, treated like hardened criminals.

It had to end, or death would soon darken the halls, just as it had before. Daena considered trying to speak with the First Enchanter, but with the state of things as they were, she assumed her efforts would be fruitless. If he had power to change anything, he would have already. He was in the same capsized boat as the rest of them. There was only one person she could think of that might be able to make a difference, only one person in power that truly understood the dangers the current rule of the Circle could, and would, inevitably lead to. 

After leaving the mess hall, mages being herded along in single-file down the halls, she stepped out of line and approached one of the templars on guard, requesting that he take her to him. As expected it wasn’t that simple. It came as no surprise when the templar simply laughed at her and shoved her back in line. She found herself wishing that Wesley was still following her around, but he was nowhere to be seen.

There was only one way that Daena could think of to see the Knight-Captain. It wasn’t her brightest idea ever, and she knew what she was about to do could end quite poorly. She would also be risking her life or her sanity, and she wasn’t sure which was worse. But she was desperate. 

“Don’t say I didn’t ask nicely,” she said quietly, but loud enough for the templar that had shoved her to hear. Before he could respond, she lifted her hands and sent a ball of sparks into the air. The attack was harmless, not aimed at anyone in particular. She used it as a smokescreen to mask her sprint down the hall. As she ran, she hoped that other mages did not take this as inspiration to rise up in battle against the templars. 

As luck would have it, most of the mages were taken off guard by the action and did nothing. The few that did try to fight their way against the templars were immediately incapacitated. It served as a decent distraction for her to slip by most of the templars, but not all of them. She didn’t expect to make it very far, but that wasn’t the point. She just needed to cause enough trouble for the templars to take her where she needed to be.

The smite that hit Daena was powerful and knocked her clean off her feet. Her vision was spotted with stars and she coughed as the wind was knocked out of her. She felt two sets of cold metal hands grab her by the arms and pull her unsteadily to her feet. They half-dragged her down the rest of the hall, shouting at the other mages to stay still and quiet. No one said a word.

The templars stopped in front of a brilliantly white door. It was half-open with the sound of the sea coming from inside. One of the templars rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Enter,” came a stern voice. The door was pushed open, and she was pulled roughly inside. 

“Knight-Captain, Ser. We have a mage that requires judgement.” She felt the grip on her arms tighten and winced. 

“Yes, you seem to have quite a few of those lately,” he said, his attention elsewhere. His golden head was bent over parchment, a quill in his hand scratching quietly on the paper, and yet he did not look up to greet them. “But why have you brought the mage here?”

“This one instigated chaos in the halls, shot off her magic and then tried to run. We thought you’d want to deal with her immediately, before she did something more drastic.”

“Is that so?” He still had not lifted his eyes from the parchment. 

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” she started, and his quill stopped moving. “I must speak with you. Privately.” 

“You most certainly will not, you little twat!” the templar to her left shouted and raised his hand to strike her.

“Halt!” Cullen exclaimed as he stood from his chair, and the templar withdrew his hand. His golden brown eyes reflected the bright sun that flooded the nearby window, and it almost looked as if they were made of fire. “I will deal with the mage later. Take her to the cells, and then return to your stations.” The templar that had raised his hand glared at her and then tightened his grip further on her arm. He looked as if he wanted to choke the life from her. “That’s an order!” Cullen growled when the templars hadn’t moved.

“Yes, Ser.” They jerked her toward the door.

“No, wait!” She struggled against the vice each templar had on her arms. “Knight-Captain, please!” Peering over her shoulder as they dragged her away, she could see Cullen turn his back to them, his head bowed low. “You have to listen to me! Cullen!” She managed to scream his name before one of the templars clamped his hand hard over her mouth, the joints in the gauntlet pinching the soft skin of her cheeks. When she refused to stop fighting, something hard collided with the back of her head and everything went dark. 

* * *

The chill of cold stone pressed against Daena’s face, and a dampness that reeked of mold soaked through her robes. Still only half-conscious, she tried to move away from the offending sensations, but found her arms weighed down by hands heavy as lead. The screech of metal as she tried to move brought her fully aware and she opened her eyes, only to find herself still in darkness. Panic seized her, afraid she had gone blind. 

She sat up, her hands dragging heavily along the stone floor and causing a louder screech that turned her skin to gooseflesh. Some sort of metallic case enveloped both her hands, up to her forearms. When she tried to summon a spark from within, it was deflected back on her, stinging her hands.

Slowly her eyes adjusted in the darkness, and she breathed a shuddered sigh of relief when she could make out the harsh lines of a cell door. The relief was short-lived, however. She wasn’t blind, but she was in a very undesirable situation. 

She had known the risk of her actions, but she had hoped that Cullen would listen to her, so she disregarded the potential consequences. She cursed under her breath for being ignorant enough to believe he might have changed since Kinloch Hold, that he might have recovered some semblance of his former self. The man she knew, in another lifetime it seemed, was kind and honorable. He would have cared what happened to her and every other mage under his protection. He would have _listened_.

The creak of a door came from somewhere above her, followed by booted footsteps that grew louder as they descended a flight of stairs she could not see. A flicker of light bounced off the wall across from her as the footsteps neared her cell, the dim light growing brighter with each step. Though the flame caused shadows to dance across his face, the golden head of hair that finally appeared was unmistakable. She elected not to speak first.

“Daena,” he said in a stern, yet not entirely harsh tone. She stood finally, being sure to scrape the metal constraints against the stone to make him cringe. He did. “Daena,” he said again, softer this time. “ _Maker_ , what got into you? You know the rules. Why did you…” He struggled for words, using his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You know the consequences, do you not?”

“I do.” Her answer was short, but it was enough to make her realize how dry her throat was, her voice rough as gravel. 

“Then why? Why did you do it?” He would have sounded angry had it not been for the subtle note of panic in his voice.

She cleared her throat, and felt a hot anger boil inside her. “Because I am a fool, apparently. Because I put my faith in a man that no longer exists,” she seethed venomously. She struck a nerve, as evidence of the recoil in his frame. 

“Daena, that’s not fair--”

“Don’t call me that,” she spat. “I am simply ‘mage’ to you. I always have been, haven’t I? I’m just another problem that needs to be erased from the world.”

“Blood magic is rampant through the Circle, and you shoot off magic at a bunch of templars,” he shouted, his temper rising. “What did you think would happen?!” The light of the candle flickered under the force of his words. 

“I only did it to get to you! I didn’t hurt anyone.” She could feel the pressure of a migraine growing beneath her skull.

“What…?”

“I requested an audience with you, and I was denied. And…” Her voice lowered, unable to keep up the shouting in her weakened state. “And I haven’t seen or talked to you since...It wasn’t like I was going to run into you in the halls. How else was I supposed to get to you?”

“What could possibly be so important that you had to risk your life to speak with me?” His ignorance confused her.

“Do you really not see how dangerously close this Circle has come to collapsing?”

“I know many mages have turned to blood magic, but we are dealing with it.”

“Dealing with it,” she repeated flatly. “You mean by turning every mage Tranquil, one by one, regardless of the crime? And if they do not submit, they die? _That_ is how the Order is _dealing_ with it?”

“The Knight-Commander is doing what is best for both mages and everyone else. I trust her judgement.” His words were certain, but his eyes, golden in the candlelight, shifted nervously from her to his feet and back again. 

“The Knight-Commander has gone too far, and we are about to reach the boiling point. Rebellion is inevitable. I’ve lost more than one home in my lifetime, I will not lose another!” She eyed him knowingly, hoping to remind him of the terrors they both had faced at Kinloch Hold.

She had heard how he was tortured by the blood mages. He was one of the few surviving templars, and with so few mages left, the rumors of what had happened had made the rounds quickly enough before everyone was dispersed. He had always been a compassionate templar, his motivations pure. A rare trait. He genuinely wanted to help protect the mages, and he had always been kind to her especially. They had never admitted it to each other, but something had bloomed between them. A connection had been forged in their time at Kinloch Hold, but propriety and duty had kept their feelings at bay. They carried on a respectful relationship expected of a guardian and his charge. 

But after the Circle fell, after the torture, he was changed. He held nothing but contempt for all mages. When they were both transferred to the same Circle in Kirkwall, the relationship dissolved completely. He became Knight-Captain soon after the transfer, and she hardly saw him at all. 

Over the years, the anger seemed to have ebbed somewhat, but she could still see the conflict in his eyes as he stood across from her. When he didn't speak, she pleaded.

"Cullen, please. You must speak with the Knight-Commander. Convince her to stop this madness, to end this liberal use of harsh law and punishment. Make her understand the dangers on the path ahead of us, the path she put us on. _All_ of us."

"She has every right to be overly cautious in these times." He hadn't heard a word she said. "She wouldn't be Commander if she didn't know what she was doing." There was the slightest hint of doubt in his voice, ripe for exploitation. 

“You know my fate,” she said quietly, holding up her bound hands as evidence. “I’ve passed my Harrowing, and I’ve never practiced blood magic. The display in the hall was a harmless trick. I wasn’t summoning demons, and you know it. And yet…” Lowering her voice, she stepped closer to the bars. “I will be forced to give up my magic, my emotions, my free will. Everything that is _me_ will be taken away without a second thought.” She rested her head between two of the bars and looked up into his golden eyes. “I’d rather die than suffer that fate. How many others have felt the same? How many mages have chosen death or demons because they couldn’t face the dreadful fate _you_ forced on them?” 

Shame darkened his eyes as he turned slowly and leaned his back against the bars. He dropped his head in his free hand and massaged his temples as if battling a headache. He didn’t speak for several moments, leaving her heart to sink into hopelessness with each passing second. 

“I wish you had found a better way than this,” he said finally, his voice nearly startling her. “I cannot guarantee that anything will change, or that your fate…” He released a heavy sigh, and turned his head sideways, giving her a view of the dark side of his profile. “I cannot stop your judgement, but I can try to lessen the severity of your punishment. Maybe push for solitary, instead of the more permanent Tranquility.” He pushed off the bars and turned fully to her. “But I cannot promise anything.”

“It’s not just about me, Cullen. I am not the only mage that has been--”

“I know,” he interjected forcefully, and then said again, softly. “I know.”

“Sparing me alone won’t mean anything.” He mumbled something under his breath... _it would_ …He straightened and cleared his throat.

“I will do what I can. I cannot promise more than that.” She sighed, accepting his word, hoping that it would be enough, knowing that it probably wouldn’t be. 

“I guess that is all I can ask,” she conceded.

Without another word, he nodded and placed the candle on the floor in front of the cell. He turned and retreated into the shadows, the thump of his boots echoing off the stone as he climbed the stairs. His steps were slower than before, and when he finally reached the top, a silence louder than the thump of his boots filled the void left between them before he closed the door with a final clank.


	5. Desperate Mage, Careless Templar

It felt like an eternity before she had another visitor. Muffled voices drew her attention and became clearer when the door at the top of the stairs swung open.

“Hold your tongue and mind your station. I am your superior and I will not hesitate to suspend you if you defy me again.”

“But Ser, it’s the Knight-Captain’s orders. No one is to--” The man was cut off as the door slammed shut. Footsteps clinked down the stairs and toward her cell. A new light joined her sputtering candle as she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. The sight before her left her so elated, she nearly fell as she stumbled toward the bars. 

A plate piled high with dried meat, hard cheese, sliced pear, and a hefty chunk of crusty white bread floated before her making her stomach sing with the hunger she had been trying hard to ignore for hours. A deep laugh drew her attention to the man holding the plate, and she gaped stupidly as she registered the familiar dark curls and grey eyes. “I can hear your stomach from here,” Knight-Lieutenant Wesley managed to say as he stifled another chuckle. 

She shook her head of the shock and narrowed her eyes at him, realizing the food must be a tease. How was she supposed to eat with her hands bound as they were? “What do you want?” she asked through clenched teeth. 

He held up the plate, as if it wasn’t painfully obvious already. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh, are you going to throw food at me so you can watch me eat it off the ground like a dog?”

"What? No! Why would you..."

She lifted the metal case that imprisoned her hands and banged it against the bars, the clash ringing loud enough to set her teeth on edge.

Wesley shook his head and sighed. Placing his candle on the floor next to the other one, he produced a set of keys from a pocket in his skirts and twisted it in the lock of her cell door. She stepped back unsure of his intentions. He set the plate on the floor, her eyes following it, and rattled the keys until he found a different one to turn the lock on the metal case. 

The shift in weight from her hands felt odd and she rubbed her fingers over her forearms, grateful for the privilege to touch. Wesley freeing her hands didn't make sense, and her eyes said as much as she stared at him.

"One could say I'm a desperate mage, seeing this as an opportunity to attack and run. You are being awfully careless, templar,” she tsked. 

“So dramatic,” Wesley smirked. “As I hear it, you’ve already tried that. I’ll take my chances you won’t try again here. But, I can bind and lock you up again, and take this food with me, if you prefer.” He bent to retrieve the plate from the floor. 

“No! No, Maker, I’m starving.” Without hesitation, he handed her the plate and she grasped it eagerly. She wasted no time in devouring the first few handfuls of meat and cheese, but stopped abruptly when she realized how he was quietly watching her with a furrowed brow. “Why are you here, really?”

His face smoothed in all seriousness. “What were you thinking? You are the last person I expected this from.”

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “I’ve already had this lecture from the Knight-Captain himself. I don’t need it from you, too.” Turning from him, she sat herself against the wall and continued nibbling on a slice of pear. 

“I know you could have hurt someone if you wanted to, but you didn’t. You only managed to get yourself thrown in here to await punishment.” His voice was soft as his eyes fell. “Why did you do it? What was the point?”

“Does the reason truly matter? At the time I thought what I did was necessary, but it was an error in judgement.” She stared distantly at the rest of the food on her plate as she placed it on the floor and pushed it away. 

“Necessary for what?” he growled frustrated. His eyes widened with fear or anger, she couldn’t be sure. Either way, she didn’t appreciate his tone and stood to match his glare.

“What does it matter to you? You aren’t the one who will have to choose between emptiness or death, so what gives you the right to be upset?” Searching his stormy eyes for the answer, she felt his breath brush past her cheek and realized how close she had stepped to him, his face only a few short inches from hers. His eyes became softer in the glow of candlelight and seemed to trace the lines of her face before settling again on her green eyes.

A warmth colored her cheeks, and she saw it reflected in him as he recognized the close proximity of their forms. Neither said a word for several moments, eyes locked and limbs paralyzed. When the urge to close the short distance creeped into her mind, she shook herself of the daze and stepped back. She turned her back to him, unable to hold his heated gaze.

“I’ve been assigned to carry out your sentence. Whatever it may be,” he said finally. “Since I oversaw your Harrowing, I suppose the Order found it fitting that I oversee this as well.” The sadness in his voice made her turn. 

After a moment of consideration, she answered his question. “With the way things are now, rebellion is inevitable. I thought if I could convince the Knight-Captain to help make some crucial changes before it’s too late, I could save the Circle.” She chuckled humorlessly. “A fool’s errand, apparently.”

“You didn’t exactly go about it the right way.”

“What other way was there? I couldn’t exactly waltz into his office, and no templar would take me to him without a reason.”

“You could have come to me. I would have--”

“You weren’t around! I hadn’t seen you for days, and with constant supervision, I couldn’t seek you out.” She grunted her frustration. “You’re just as blind as the Knight-Captain. Both of you are oblivious to the way things are from our side. The oppression is unbearable. Much of the desperation found in mages who fall to blood magic is caused by you and your _Order_.” Wesley seemed unphased by the venomous bite of her words. 

“You’re right,” he conceded, unexpectedly. “The Order has made some grave mistakes in judgement. I am not blind to that.” He stepped forward, closing the distance slightly, but remaining far from the proximity they shared before. “There is little I can do from within these walls, but there are other ways to achieve change.”

She arched her brow curiously and took an involuntary step forward. “What do you mean?”

“I have reached out to the Chantry, explained the situation and its urgency to the Divine. I implored her to consider an intervention to investigate the Knight-Commander’s current state of mind and ability to lead the Order, as well as gauge the increasing tensions between mages and templars.”

“How would involving the Chantry help?” she asked, her nose scrunching in disapproval. 

“If she finds the situation as dire as I have claimed, she will proclaim an Exalted March to end the threat of rebellion and restore order to both sides.” She gaped at him in horror, having read about many of the previous Exalted Marches. 

“An Exalted March is nothing short of a war that is guaranteed to end poorly for one side! You know what side that will be. How is this a solution?”

“Would a rebellion be any better?” he countered. “You said yourself it was inevitable. If it happens, the balance of mage and templar--” 

“What balance?” she scoffed. “The Circle has been out of sorts for longer than your Order cares to admit.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But the March may give us a chance to save and improve upon this failing system. We could _restore_ the balance.” 

She huffed, but gave surrender. There would be no easy solution to their problem. At least this way, they could try going through the proper channels. “I assume the Knight-Commander is unaware of the investigation?”

“Of course. I am a firm believer that the current state of things is, in large part, due to her most recent command decisions.” She couldn’t help the twitch of a grin, relieved to finally have someone agree with her, but it quickly faded. _At least he’s doing something_ , she thought bitterly as she remembered her current status and the man who she had foolishly depended on for help. 

“I wish I had known about this sooner,” she said, dragging a hand wearily down her face. “I’m such an idiot.” She felt herself on the verge of tears when Wesley reached out and clasped her arms gently. With his hands free of their gauntlets, she could just barely see the multitude of tiny scars and callouses that spotted the wide canvas of his tan skin. A well-practiced swordsman's hand. She focused her eyes there, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. 

“You did what you thought was necessary for the greater good. Was it irresponsible? Most definitely.” She could hear the smile in his voice. He nudged a finger under her chin to lift her eyes to his. “But it was _selfless_. I admire that.” The intensity of his grey gaze had the blood sizzling beneath her cheeks again, and she had to struggle to find breath.

“Selfless or not my fate is sealed, isn’t it?” She blinked, and mentally cursed when a single tear escaped. He hesitated, his eyes burning hotter than before, his lips pulling down into a grimace. 

“I...I won’t be able to prevent your judgement, nor will I have any influence on the outcome.” He moved his hand from her chin, back to her arm, and squeezed it reassuringly. “But I will do everything I can to postpone it. If the Divine intervenes in time, hopefully you and anyone else awaiting punishment may be spared.” He released her arms, a coldness settling in at the absence of the warmth in his hands, and pointed a stern finger at her. “But don’t try anything drastic before then,” he said, with the hint of a smirk on his lips. 

She forced a smile grateful for his effort, but unable to believe he could make a difference. No doubt he would try to help her, but she considered herself beyond help. As her eyes drifted to her feet, he retrieved the canteen strapped to his hip and held it out to her. She had nearly forgotten her thirst, and when he uncorked the top, her throat tightened at the reminder. He nodded for her to take it, and she did not hesitate, gulping down the cool clean water eagerly. When the canteen felt light, she withdrew it from her lips, wiped away the streams of water that had escaped down her chin, and handed it back to him. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and she meant it for more than just the water.

“Everything will work out, Daena. By the Maker, I _swear_ it.” The sound of her name on his lips was odd, as he had never used it before. It had always been _Miss Feldis_. Her lips curled into an amused smile.

“I’m certain I will never understand why you care so much, _Knight-Lieutenant_ Wesley.”

The corner of his lips twitched slightly. “Perhaps one day, you will.”


	6. One of the Good Ones

Several days passed and Wesley remained true to his word. Daena’s judgement had been postponed, and she wasn’t sure how he was doing it. The days dragged on. She had only her meals, mostly brought to her by nameless templars, to judge the time of day. These templars never bothered to free her of her confines to eat with dignity. Instead, they took pleasure in watching her scoop up the mediocre food with her mouth from the plate on the floor like a dog. She despised those templars and wanted nothing more than to wrap the tendrils of her hot lightning around them.

However, she swallowed her anger and kept her word not to do anything _drastic_. Wesley’s periodic visits made the humiliation worth it. He never failed to bring her good food and better company, and she never had to wear the bindings on her hands. She was especially grateful that he avoided commenting on her ragged appearance. He was kind enough to bring her a pail of clean water every now and then to bathe. Having been locked in a bare cell furnished only by a wooden bucket, dirt and filth quickly and easily accumulated on her skin and clothes.

"Why are you a templar?" she asked him one evening after an especially vigorous scrubbing with a now-black linen cloth. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he leaned against the bars of her cell. 

"Why do you ask?"

"You don't seem like the others. Most templars seem so apathetic to the job, as if it's just that. A job. But for you, it's more than that isn't it? There is a reason you chose to become a templar." She tilted her head slightly, her brow raised inquisitively. 

"I'm here to help people," he answered plainly. She crossed her arms and eyed him skeptically. He sighed and pushed himself off the bars, combing his fingers through his thick dark hair. “It is not a cheerful story, and I’d prefer not to speak on it.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded. Her own tale of discovering her magic was more than a little unpleasant to think about, and she understood the pain such memories could induce. His tense posture relaxed when she ceased her inquiry. 

The next time he visited her cell he brought news of the investigation. The Divine had sent an agent known only as Sister Nightingale, but her progress had been regrettably slow.

“Tensions between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter are getting worse,” he told Daena. His face was drawn and his voice low. He carried the weight of defeat in every feature. “And we’ve had a few mages break out. Some have disappeared completely. We assume they’ve died, one way or another. But many have been found in the city, hiding with their families.”

“I haven’t seen anyone else locked up down here,” she said curiously. “Where are the ones you’ve re-captured?”

“Already Tranquil. Or dead.” She winced.

“But I’m still down here. Why haven’t they--”

“You won’t be for long.” He turned his back to her and rubbed his weary face with both hands. “They are bringing you up for judgement tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Oh.” Her head began spinning as her breath left her. She leaned against the wall and slid slowly down until her knees were curled against her chest.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.”

“No, it’s alright,” she said softly. “It was inevitable. Death will come sooner rather than later.” Her voice felt disconnected from her mouth, as if someone else was saying the words. 

“No!” His fist collided with the wall, and the sound of metal on stone startled her. “This isn’t right. Not for you, and not for anyone else. Most mages that have been punished haven’t abused their magic, but they get sentenced anyway. It isn’t right!” he shouted again. Daena stood from her place against the wall and reached for his trembling arm and hesitantly clasped his clenched fist in her hands.

“No, it isn’t. But what can be done about it?” When he met her gaze, she could see the pained lines straining around his eyes, deepened by the shadows cast from the candlelight. “You’ve done what you can, and I am ever grateful for that. But this is it. The battle is lost.”

“You’d give up? Just like that? What happened to the woman who was ready to fight a room full of templars when she awoke from her Harrowing?” he asked incredulously.

She couldn’t answer him. She _had_ been ready to fight for her life after battling her way through the Fade. It hadn’t mattered that she didn’t have her staff or that there were more templars surrounding her than she could count on both hands. What had changed? Perhaps it was that, at the time, she was fighting to remain alive and a _mage_. Back then, she thought she still had a future at the Circle, learning and practicing her magic so that one day she could give something of herself back to the world.

Then there was her first fight, the struggle that had led her to the Circle in the first place.

“I grew up in a small village in the Frostbacks of Ferelden,” she began. “Haven, have you heard of it?” 

“It sounds familiar, but…” He shook his head. 

“I don’t suppose many have. It was cut off from everyone else, hidden in the mountains. When I was thirteen, I developed my magic. My people--” she stopped and sighed. “The people there worshipped Andraste to an extreme degree. Because she had fought against the magisters of Tevinter, they despised magic.”

Realizing that her tale would not be a pleasant one, Wesley stopped her. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“There hadn’t been many mages that developed within the community,” she continued. “None at all in the time that I had grown. When I struck down a pack of wolves by pulling lightning from nowhere, I was frightened. I didn’t know what was happening. It didn’t take long for the Elders of the village to come find me.” She paused.

“What did they do?” he asked softly.

“They wanted to take me away. They said I would make a good offering to Andraste.”

“Offering? You mean…” His eyes widened.

“The village worshipped Andraste in the form of a dragon. I was to become a sacrifice to it.” She heard Wesley mutter a curse by the Maker. “As you can imagine, I was utterly terrified.”

“What happened?”

“I ran to my father’s side, clinging to him for safety. But he looked at me as if he no longer knew me and pushed me into the arms of the Elders. When their hands grasped me, I lost it. More lightning exploded from me. I...I _killed_ everyone around me. Including my parents. I couldn’t control it.” She lowered her eyes to her feet, shame heating her face. It was not something she had ever said out loud. She wasn’t even sure why she was saying it now. She was certain a templar would see it as the perfect reason to put her down.

Instead of pulling away, he placed his free hand over hers that still gripped his fist. “This is what you dreamed of in the library that night?” She nodded. “You were a child and you were scared. It wasn’t your fault,” he said reassuringly. 

“It was, but it doesn’t matter now. The point is, I fought to stay alive, because I still had a life to live. I ran away, somehow managing to make it to the nearest town, Redcliffe Village. An old man took me in and cared for me, until he found out I was a mage. Then the men in silver came for me too. But they didn’t want to kill me, so I went with them. The Circle became my home, a safe place. But now…” 

Even without the incident that had landed her in this cell, she had become nothing more than a prisoner. Most of her rights had been stripped away, with her magic restricted and her potential smothered. What kind of life was that? _Nothing worth fighting for anymore_.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“I know.”

“I remember Haven now,” he said suddenly. “I heard the Hero ventured there in search of Andraste’s ashes. She found them, I suppose, since the place is now a site for holy pilgrimage.”

“What of the people who lived there?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’m not sure,” he said. She lowered her eyes and focused her attention on their hands.

“I wish you wouldn’t give up so easily. You’re stronger than that. Is Tranquility so much worse than death?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I would lose myself, everything that makes me who I am. I might still have breath in my lungs, but I would be far from alive.” She pulled away and turned from him. “With either decision I make, my life will end. I’d prefer to remain whole. It is not so easy to want the sword, but I have no doubt it is the right choice, given the options I have.” Tears sprang to her eyes finally, and she fought to hold them back. 

She felt Wesley close behind her, the heat of his body almost pressing to her back, but he did not move to touch her. A long moment passed before he said, “I think I understand.” He sighed, and then, “I wish...” He couldn’t form the words.

“I know.” Her voice cracked. “And that’s what makes you one of the good ones,” she said, a faint smile on her lips. When she turned to meet his grey eyes again, she was caught by the intensity of his gaze. She couldn’t be sure what fueled the heat in his eyes. Was it anger? At her, or the Order? Frustration, perhaps, that he couldn’t do anything to save her? 

She decided that it couldn’t be either. The furrow of his brow was too soft. The longer she stared silently trying to figure him out, the more a tension grew between them, a tension she could not quite identify. It stirred a warmth somewhere in her belly that spread to her arms and legs, and fingers and toes. Her heart pumped wildly in her chest, and her face, she knew, was an embarrassing shade of crimson.

His lips parted to speak. "You should go," she blurted and immediately regretted it. His face fell slightly and the heat in his eyes cooled. "Tomorrow will be...you'll need your rest."

"Right," he responded absently. 

She stepped back and held out her hands, waiting for him to bind them again. He nodded solemnly and reluctantly locked the metal case around them. Collecting her discarded mug and dinner bowl, he stepped out of her cell and locked it behind him. He stood motionless for a moment, lost in thought, but elected to say nothing else. He turned on his heel and left.

When she heard the door at the top of the stairs finally clang shut, she sank to the stone floor and let her tears fall silently into the night.


	7. Andraste Guide You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attempted Rape/non-con in this chapter.

The next day began as a blur as two templars retrieved her from her cell. She followed them, her mind and body numb, to what she recognized to be the Harrowing chamber. The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter were absent, as she expected. What she didn’t expect was to find Cullen standing solemnly next to Wesley. They both stood with their hands clasped together in front of them and their heads held low.

_Cullen must be the one to declare the sentence, and Wesley to swing the sword._ The templars led her to stand in front of them, and took their places by the door. No other templars were present. _They know I will not fight this_ , she thought.

“Daena Feldis,” Cullen began, his voice slightly unsteady. “For the unsanctioned use of magic and the subsequent attempted evasion of capture, the Order has sentenced you—” He paused, and cleared his throat anxiously. “With Tranquility.” The shred of hope that she hadn’t realized she still clinged to shriveled inside her. Cullen’s eyes slanted to the floor as he awaited her answer, _holding his breath_ , she noticed.

She looked to Wesley, and his grey eyes remained on her. She thought he might plead with her, but there was a quiet resolve that had smoothed his face of the hard lines from the night before. Keeping her eyes on Wesley, she answered, “I decline the Rite of Tranquility and accept the alternate punishment of death.” The muscles in Wesley’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Cullen asked, his eyes crinkling slightly.

“She’s made her decision, Knight-Captain,” Wesley answered, his uneven voice betraying the despondency he had managed to hide from his face. Cullen turned to him and nodded solemnly.

The sharp sound of Wesley's sword being drawn reminded her of her Harrowing, rising from the depths of the Fade to find herself at the mercy of this very same templar. He had been ready and willing to strike her down that day. But today he carried the strain of reluctance in his every movement, his eyes the color of a turbulent storm rather than the soft grey of a gentle rain. 

"Kneel," he said as evenly as he could manage as he chiseled the tip of his heavy sword into the stone floor, his bare knuckles stark white from the tight grip he had on the hilt. She obeyed and took one last look at Cullen, who had turned his eyes away from her. She bowed her head, closed her eyes, and held her breath. 

The silence that filled the room was deafening as she waited for Wesley to strike. Time seemed to stand still. When the doors of the chamber burst open with a shout, she gasped for air as if she’d been drowning. 

“Knight-Captain! You must come quick! The Chantry...the mages...disaster!” The templar was panting, his face red from the exertion.

“What are you on about?” Cullen asked. The templar took a deep breath and tried again.

“The Chantry has been destroyed, by magic! The Knight-Commander, she...she’s ordered the Rite of Annulment!” 

Daena, her emerald eyes wide, looked to Wesley. _Too late_ , she mouthed silently at him. The rebellion had begun. There would be no Exalted March. 

“Where is the Knight-Commander now?” Cullen’s voice boomed.

“She is gathering men in the courtyard. She says the Champion of Kirkwall herself intends to interfere with the Rite. You are to report to her immediately, Ser.” 

Cullen shot a glance at Daena, his jaw set in a hard line. Without looking away, he said, “Tell the Knight-Commander I’ll be right there. And you two,” he continued, turning his head toward the two templars that had been guarding the door. “Join your brothers in the courtyard immediately.”

“But, Ser,” one of them said with his finger pointed at Daena. “What about the mage?”

“I said go! Now,” he barked, and the templars jumped before stuttering their ‘yes sers’ and scrambling out the door. 

Silence filled the room again, broken only by the thump of Cullen’s boots as he approached Daena and Wesley. 

“Knight-Lieutenant, escort Miss Feldis to her cell for the time being,” he said evenly. Wesley opened his mouth to speak, and at Cullen’s stern glance, he closed it again.

“Yes, Knight-Captain,” he sighed.

Cullen turned and made for the doors, marching through them without a backwards glance. 

Daena stood frozen, and Wesley grasped her arm to pull her toward the doors. When he was certain there was no sound on the other side, he opened them and pulled her through. 

“Stay close,” he said. The halls was clear, though she could hear the unmistakable clash of a battle somewhere nearby. The shouts and screams chilled her blood and she shivered. 

When they reached the junction in the hallway that would lead them to the cells, Wesley took a wrong turn.

“Where are we going?” she asked confused. Wesley remained silent, his watchful eyes scanning the halls. He pulled her along at a quicker pace, and they eventually reached an area of the Circle that had always been forbidden to her and every other mage. 

Wesley pulled her through a door and closed it behind them. Bunks lined the walls, and she deduced that the room must be part of the templars’ barracks. It was, fortunately, void of occupants. 

He pulled a set of keys from his robes and relieved her hands of the metal case, discarding it on one of the empty cots. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing feeling back into her hands and arms.

“You have to leave. Get far away from this place,” he answered and quickly set to work on filling a sack with various items: a blanket and bedroll, a small satchel of sovereigns he pulled from a side table she couldn’t be sure was his, and his ration of lyrium. 

“What? What do you mean _leave_?” 

“If I return you to that cell, you’ll die.” Wesley handed her the sack he had built and grasped her arms. “This is your chance to get out. To _live_.”

“How am I supposed to get out? Where would I go?” Her heart was pounding in her ears.

“I’ll help you. Just get anywhere that isn’t here.”

“But the Order will just track me down again, no matter where I go. My phylactery--”

“Is here.” He pulled it from a pocket in his robes. The ruby red glow sent a shiver through her. 

“What? It should have been sent to the White Spire, after my Harrowing.”

“It wasn’t. In fact, the phylacteries for nearly every mage in this Circle are still here.” She narrowed her eyes incredulously. “With the state of things as they are, and have been here, the Order thought it best to keep the phylacteries in-house for convenient retrieval. It’s how we’ve been able to track down so many blood mages so quickly.”

“So what?” she huffed. “You’ll just hand over my phylactery and send me on my way?”

“Yes,” he answered bluntly, and slipped the small vial into the palm of her hand. It was warm from the place in his pocket or from some enchantment, she couldn’t be sure, but it made her hand tingle and she almost dropped the delicate vial. _Maybe I should_ , she thought, but something stopped her. Instead she turned it over in her hand to find the letters of her name etched into the glass, the glow becoming impossibly bright now that it was as close to her as it could be. She clenched her fingers around it, capturing the light, and glanced up under a furrowed brow. 

“But why? The Order will suspend you for this, perhaps indefinitely.” The thought of Wesley suffering the withdrawals of lyrium was unsettling.

“You deserve better than this,” he said softly. “Don’t concern yourself with me. Focus on finding a way out of Kirkwall.”

“Where do I go?” She could feel the start of tears prickling her eyes, fear of an unknown path ahead mounting inside of her.

“I don’t know,” he answered solemnly. “But you have a better chance out there than you do in here. I know that isn’t saying much.” He pulled something from his belt. “Here,” he said as he handed her a silver dagger. “You’ll need this.” It was the same dagger he had almost used on her at her Harrowing. The grip was bound in soft black leather, the edge of the blade straight and sharp. It was clearly well cared for. She took it, the cold metal pressing into her hand. 

“But what about my staff? I’ll need—”

“Taking your staff is a death sentence. It will only draw attention to what you are.” He handed her a bundle of clothes. “They may be a little big, but they’ll have to do. The robes could give you away as much as your staff.” 

She unfolded the clothes and found a pair of brown tweed breeches, matching jacket, and a soft white linen tunic. Wesley handed her a dark oversized hooded cloak, and pointed to a pair of boots that looked to be about her size. 

“Go ahead and get changed. I’ll go see if I can find some food rations for you to take.” As he stepped toward the door, Daena clung to his arm involuntarily. _Don’t leave_ , she pleaded silently with her wide eyes. He placed his hand gently over hers. “I won’t be gone long, I promise.” 

She nodded and reluctantly let go of his arm. When he shut the door behind him, she stood frozen for a moment, aware that if anyone else came through the door, she’d be dead. 

She pushed the fear down and began to dress. The breeches fit better than expected, though the tunic was a little oversized. She pulled the jacket on and tucked the tunic into her breeches, securing the dagger in her belt. Unsure of where to keep her phylactery safe, she settled on slipping it snugly into her boot. 

In her haste, she failed to hear the door creak open.

“Well, well. What have we here? The little bird has escaped her cage.” The voice was horribly familiar, and it chilled her to the bone. She turned slowly to find the one man she hoped never to see again, a sickly grin on his ragged face.

“Fredericks,” she gasped breathlessly. 

“Ah, I’m touched you remembered! I certainly haven’t forgotten you, my dear.” His grin disappeared, replaced by a grimace. His black eyes narrowed as he started to move toward her. “It’s because of you I was put on suspension and sent to solitary confinement. Do you have any idea how much I suffered?” Every step he took toward her, she took a tentative step back, too frightened to bolt outright. 

“Do you think I care?” she spit back in a shaky voice, trying and failing to feign courage. “I had hoped you’d rot away in the dark. It was the least you deserved for what you did.”

“Come now, don’t be so cruel,” he said, his lips curling again. “I know you wanted it. I know you were _aching_ for it. You wanted me to take you hard against that wall.” He had nearly closed the distance between them when she found her back against a similar wall. “You wanted to feel my hard cock thrust into your wet cunt, and you would have begged for more.”

She cringed and with him so close, it was now or never. Thrusting out her hands, she conjured lighting at her fingertips, but he was faster than her. He gripped her wrists hard and the pain broke her concentration, the sparks sputtering out. He threw her onto one of the cots, and she could feel the familiar sting as he smited her, draining her magic. 

He was on top of her in an instant, straddling her hips, her arms pinned to her sides. When she tried to scream, he clamped his hand over her mouth and began furiously unbuttoning her breeches with the other. She kicked her feet trying to get free, but he clenched his legs tighter around her. The dagger, which had been tucked to the side, went unnoticed. It pressed against her left hand and she struggled to get her arm free. 

Her breeches lay open and he started to shuffle his skirts out of the way, relieving just enough pressure from her left side for her fingers to wrap around the grip of the dagger. With his cock freed and her smallclothes pushed out of the way, he leaned over her, ready to impale her. She pulled on her left arm as hard as she could until it finally wrenched free, and she raised it in an arc above his shoulder.

She buried the blade in his neck, and blood spurted immediately from the wound and his lips. He gurgled uselessly before falling forward on top of her, his warm blood coating her neck and shoulder, seeping into the soft linen. The dead weight of him and his armor was enough to knock the breath out of her and she struggled to push him off. 

As she pushed and hammered her fists against him, she could hear her name through the blood pounding in her ears and felt a ragged scream rise in her throat. The weight was lifted from her suddenly and she coughed, gasping for air. 

She felt warm hands cup around her face and she focused in on wide grey eyes. “Daena! Are you alright? Are you hurt?” When she opened her mouth and found she couldn’t speak, she simply shook her head. Adrenaline still surged through her and she struggled to calm the tremor in her arms and legs and heart. 

She bolted upright and heaved the contents of her stomach, what little there was, over the side of the cot. Wesley braced her shoulders and held back her hair until she was emptied. Using the blanket from the cot, he wiped the blood from her neck and offered her a canteen of cool water. She took it gingerly, a swig to rinse her mouth and a second to soothe the raw pain in her throat.

"Thank you," she said weakly.

"We have to get you out of here before someone else shows up." She nodded and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Unsteady on her feet, Wesley grasped her shoulders to offer support. It was easy to let herself lean into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking her face against his neck. 

She felt his body go rigid against her, but only for an instant before he squeezed her tightly enough to make the breath catch in her chest. 

They couldn't stay locked together for long, and he finally pulled back enough to see her face. He pressed his hand gently against her cheek, the other still wrapped around her waist. Stroking his thumb across the curve of her cheekbone, he parted his lips to speak, but snapped them shut again without a word and sighed.

"We should get moving," he muttered, and pulled away from her entirely, leaving her with a sudden ache in her limbs. She refastened her breeches as he rounded the cot to the other side and retrieved the dagger from Fredericks' neck. The wet sound turned her stomach again. He wiped the blade clean on the dead man's skirts and handed it back to her.

She took it with trembling fingers and secured it in her belt. There was no time to find a new shirt and jacket, so she used the cloak to hide the bloody mess. Wesley retrieved her pack from the floor and dropped in the remaining provisions he obtained.

“There is an exit this way that leads out of the Gallows,” he said, and led her to a hallway at the back of the barracks. The outer wall revealed window slits that looked out onto the sea. “You won’t be able to circumvent the city, but you should be able to slip through unnoticed, without your staff or robes.” She followed close behind him down a curve of stairs to a wooden door. “Go through this door and follow the wall around to the left. It should take you right outside the Gallows’ gates.” He pushed open the door for her and waited.

She stared through the door, wondering where this path would take her. Not just beyond the gates, but where she would ultimately end up. Where could she run to that the Order would not eventually find her? How would she be able to make this journey alone?

“Come with me,” she blurted without thinking about the consequences of that statement. 

“My place is here,” he said solemnly.

“This place is in chaos. The Circle has all but fallen, and there is nothing left but to destroy everything. Do you really want to do that?”

“Perhaps you’re right, and nothing more can be done. But I must try. If I stay, I might be able to help save those that remain innocent.”

“So why are you helping me escape? If you are so confident that people like me can be saved, why are you sending me away like this?”

“Because I’m not so confident.” He released the door, letting it shut again, and moved closer to her. “You asked me once why I became a templar.” He stopped to breathe a sigh. “I had a younger sister. She was a mage. My parents refused to let the Order take her away. They couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.”

“They hid her,” Daena stated quietly.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And you can imagine how that turned out. A young mage with no instruction or proper guidance on how to use her magic and no training on how to recognize and resist the threat of a demon’s temptation. One day, she was no longer herself. Just an empty shell of an abomination, and she— _it_ —killed our parents. I barely managed to take it down before it could kill me too.”

“Oh, Wesley. I’m so sorry.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm in comfort, and he placed his own hand over hers. 

“It was a long time ago, but the memory of it is as sharp and clear as if it happened yesterday. I joined the Order shortly thereafter, determined to prevent something like that from happening to someone else.” He took a deep breath. “She was my sister, and she was a mage. She was dangerous, yes, but only because she didn’t get the help and instruction she needed. It wasn’t her fault. I joined the Order because I believed in its purpose.” He paused again, and then, “Many templars look upon mages as being inherently evil, easily corruptible.”

“But you don’t.”

“No. I, and hopefully others, will do everything we can to end this unjustified Annulment and save who we can.” He brought one hand to rest on her shoulder and the other pressed against her cheek. “But if we fail, if _I_ fail, then I would lose you for good. I can’t—I _won’t_ …” A crimson blush crept into his cheeks and he shifted his eyes to somewhere safer, over her shoulder. 

Her heart jumped in her chest, her breath short. She tilted her head up slightly and pressed her hands against the cold silverite plate of his armor. “You were ready to strike me down earlier. What changed?” she asked softly.

“I wasn’t. I didn’t know if I could even do it, but I was faced with no other choice.” His eyes crinkled and his brow creased with the agony of what he would have done. “Now I have this chance to help you escape a fate you do not deserve.”

She reached up and touched her hand to his cheek, bringing his eyes back to hers. “Will I ever see you again?” she asked, her voice cracking a little. 

“For your sake, I hope not.” He covered her hand with his and squeezed gently. She couldn’t say when they had gone from templar and mage, to friends, to... _this_. Her heart ached at the thought of never again looking into his grey eyes, never again hearing his voice or feeling his hand as a comfort over hers. 

Her heart silenced her mind and she found herself on her toes, pressing her lips to his in a fevered kiss. There was only a moment of hesitation on his part before he molded his lips to hers and wrapped his arms tightly around her. 

She threaded her fingers through his dark curls and parted her lips to take in more of him. She breathed in the musk and sweat of a man well-worn from battle, with the slightest hint of sweetness from a philter of lyrium. He tightened his embrace, desperate to feel every line of her body through the hard shell of his armor, and she moaned softly into his mouth. 

The world melted away: the rebellion, their stations, their every obligation in life disappeared for a few blissful moments. 

And then a distant boom and clash brought them crashing down to reality again. The sound startled them apart, both short of breath and panting. He leaned his head down again and pressed his forehead to hers, taking her hands in his.

“I—Wesley, I…” Her voice cracked and the words died on her tongue. She could not bring herself to put voice to her feelings, not when she was about to lose him, quite possibly forever. “I will never forget for you,” she whispered vehemently. It was all she could manage.

He leaned down and captured her lips in another kiss, soft and sweet and sad, and she could feel the love neither of them were willing to speak of. She pulled her hand from his and moved it to the back of his neck, pulling him desperately closer.

When the connection finally broke, she sighed against his lips. She felt something tear painfully in her chest, leaving a throbbing gash she knew she would never be able to mend. 

“Promise me that you will make it out of the city alive, and that you will continue to live, somewhere safe and far away from here.” His lips hovered close enough to hers to feel his warm breath on her skin, and she ached to close the distance again, to stall talk of goodbyes. But with another loud boom somewhere nearby, she knew it was time. “Don’t worry about me, Daena. Keep yourself safe.”

She also knew she could not hope to make such a promise, but she could not deny him. “I promise,” she said in a voice broken by raw, unforgiving emotion. 

He collected both of her hands in his again, reluctantly pulled away, and kissed the back of each of them. “Farewell, Daena. Andraste guide you.” He let her go and pushed open the door again.

“And you, Wesley,” she returned, her voice shaky. When he smiled, a somber twitch of his lips though it was, she felt her own lips split into a sorrowful smile of her own. It took a strength she didn’t know she possessed to make her feet step over the threshold of what would become her new life. With one last long glance, Daena turned away from him and took the first few steps forward numbly as if someone else controlled strings tied to her feet. 

The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in her ears and her vision tunneled to the path in front of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far!


	8. Man in Black

Kirkwall was on fire. Smoke burned Daena’s eyes, and she heard screams from every direction. Wesley’s path had indeed led her just outside the gates, but the horrors she had heard inside the Gallows echoed here as well. Slipping through the shadows to avoid the clashing of swords and staves, she coughed and stumbled quietly along the cracked cobbled pathway that led away toward... _toward where_? 

She didn’t know Kirkwall, and had never even been outside the Gallows. Panic seized her for a few brief seconds before she took a deep breath and downed a bottle of lyrium to counter the smite Fredericks had attacked her with earlier. _Keep moving forward_ , she thought. She figured that any direction away from the Gallows would be an improvement, so she picked one and kept moving.

The stench of burning flesh assaulted her nose, and every other step was splashed in pools of red. Heaps of humans and demons dotted the streets around her, and she finally realized the severity of what had happened. An image of Wesley lying broken and bleeding at her feet flashed across her mind, and she fought the urge to run back to the Gallows to protect him. _He’ll be fine_ , she told herself. His efforts to save her would be in vain if she returned now and got herself killed. 

As she weaved her way through the streets, keeping to the shadows, she found herself in what was known as Lowtown, as indicated by a weathered wooden sign. The bulk of the fighting was nearer the Gallows, with this area having been the recent site of a horrific showdown between demons and templars. As she took in the grisly scene, she heard the familiar clang of silver armor. She peeked around the corner of the nearest building and found a small group of templars, bloodied and weary from battle. A slew of bodies were at their feet, and not all of them were wearing Circle robes. 

Daena sucked in a breath and held it, afraid to make a sound. She had no staff or robes to identify her as a mage to most people, but templars could easily sense the lyrium in her system if they were close enough. However, by the looks of the people on the ground, being a mage didn’t seem to be a necessary consideration.

As she turned quietly to sneak away and find a path around them, she walked face first into a solid figure. She gasped before she could think and a warm hand closed over her mouth. It was a man dressed entirely in black. He used his other hand to make a shushing motion. When she nodded her consent, he pulled away. He glanced over her shoulder and then back at her, his brown eyes peering into hers inquisitively. When she didn’t understand, he jerked his chin in the direction of the templars. She nodded, confirming their presence around the corner. 

He turned to look over his shoulder, jerking his head to beckon someone. Daena finally noticed the group of mages standing behind the man in black. The man also happened to be a mage, judging by the glimmering staff strapped across his back. He motioned for some of the mages to go around the building to flank the templars from the other side and put a hand on Daena’s shoulder to secure her safely against the wall. 

The skirmish was quick as there were more mages than templars, but no less bloody than what she had witnessed on her short trek from the Gallows. Daena considered slipping away while they fought, determined to avoid getting mixed up in the rebellion, but curiosity got the better of her. She watched the mages as they fought, looking for any sign of blood magic. There was none, but the man in black had an odd glow to him that Daena had never seen before. 

“My name is Anders,” he said when he made his way back to her. He stretched out his hand in greeting, and a smile strained with exhaustion rested on his lips. She hesitated before grasping it in turn.

“Daena,” she offered. 

“Nice to meet you, Daena. It seems you’ve been through as much or more as we have.” She gave him a puzzled look. “You’re covered in blood,” he elaborated and pointed to her chest. The cloak had fallen open, and the sticky reminder of what had almost happened was left exposed. “Yours?” She shook her head and pulled her cloak closed again. 

Anders returned to where the templars had fallen, and retrieved one of the staves left behind by the mages that had been killed. He handed it to Daena, but she shook her head again. 

“I’m not—” _a mage_.

“I can sense the lyrium in you.” He urged her to take the staff. “You’ll need it, Daena. These won’t be the last templars we’ll see on our way out of Kirkwall.” In addition to the spots of blood drying on the cool metal, Wesley’s words kept her from accepting the staff. _It will only draw attention to what you are_. She didn’t need it, and she would survive better in the world without it. 

“I’ll be fine. You know a way out of Kirkwall?” He looked at her curiously a moment longer, and set the staff against the wall. 

“I do. You’re from the Circle then?”

“Aren’t you?” She knew the answer before the question left her mouth. She didn’t recognize him from the Circle, and he was wearing black robes she did not recognize. The other mages were wearing Circle robes. She recognized a few of them from her classes, not that she knew any of their names. Their silence indicated that they did not seem to know who she was. 

“I was in a Circle once, but no, I am not a Circle mage. I’ve been an apostate for years, hiding in Darktown, helping other apostate mages. You don’t look like you’ve come from the Circle.” She knew he meant her state of dress, and she self-consciously smoothed her dirty hair back behind her ears. A few days spent in a cell had left its mark on her. 

“What does it matter?” she answered. “We are all apostates now.”

“True enough,” he said.

“Then I suggest we get moving.” She had decided she’d join him and his mages, at least until they could lead her out of the city. Confident they were not blood mages, she knew she’d be safer with them than alone. 

* * *

Anders was not wrong. They had encountered more templars and even demons as they made their way to the city gates. Daena offered what she could in the way of unfocused spells. Her lightning was efficient, though not as powerful as it could be. She was able to capture enemies in a cage of light, stunning them still so the others could take them down with their own spells. Anders was primarily a healer, she noticed. However, when he started to glow, his spells became more offensive and powerful. 

“What is that glow thing you do?” she asked him after they had dispatched a group of hostiles. 

He hesitated and answered, “It’s just a specialization I’ve picked up. It enhances my spells.” 

“What kind of specialization? I’ve never seen it before.” He squirmed uncomfortably, and hesitated to answer further when another group of templars appeared. 

Her query was forgotten as the fighting continued almost endlessly. They finally made it through the gates and out of the city, sustaining energy only by pilfering lyrium from templars they had felled. The sky had grown dark as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, but they had to keep moving. 

“I know of a place on the Wounded Coast we can hide out for the night,” Anders offered. Using the light from their staves, they trekked through the dark for an unknown time. The other mages chattered quietly amongst themselves, and at times, she felt the chatter may have been about her. When she’d glance over at them, she’d be met with wide eyes and abruptly closed lips. Perhaps they knew her after all.

They finally reached a cave off the coast. When they were well into the cave, one of the mages sparked a fire to keep warm.

“I heard the Chantry was destroyed,” Daena said to break the uncomfortable silence. “By magic, they say. Does anyone know what happened exactly?” No one responded at first, each person looking at another in turn. Then Anders spoke.

“It burned from the inside out. It went off like a bomb, but it wasn’t. Red magic: a fire that burned hot against the Chantry sun.” He sounded distant, as if someone else spoke the words.

“You were there, Anders?” she asked.

“I was the mage who did it,” he answered plainly. Daena’s breath caught in her throat and she almost choked out a cough. She stood to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides.

“You _what_?”

“It had to be done. The oppression of mages in the Circles had gone too far, and this was the only solution that would make a difference.” Daena’s eyes flickered to the other mages around her. They looked shocked at the revelation, but not as upset as she expected them to be. 

She stood silently for several moments, her fingernails biting into her palms. The fury at his foolishness built steadily inside her until she couldn’t contain it. Without so much as a growl, she pounced on him with her fists flying toward his face. One connected as she landed on him and tipped him so his back was on the ground. 

“Do you know what you’ve done?!” she screamed, and hit him again. By the third punch, Anders had begun to glow and his hands caught her wrists in a tight grip. 

“ _You know nothing, foolish girl!_ ” Anders shouted back, except it didn’t sound like him. The voice was a deep reverberation of something sinister, overlaid on Anders’ gentle timbre. He threw her off him with enough strength to send her flying across the cave and against the opposite wall. She collided with a thud and fell to the ground, her body pulsing with pain.

She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, grunted with the effort, and raised herself unsteadily to her feet. 

“What _are_ you?” she asked, her eyes wide. 

Anders stood, but his head was in his hands. He gripped at his fair hair, trying to regain control of himself. The glow dimmed and his eyes and voice were his again. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...Are you hurt?” He moved toward her and she flinched. 

“Don’t,” she snapped, and he stopped. “Tell me what just happened.”

He sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “His name is Justice. Or at least it was in the beginning. I journeyed the Fade once and encountered him.” He stopped and chuckled humorlessly. “Long story short, he followed me out of the Fade. He couldn’t survive long in the form he had taken, so I offered myself as a vessel. It worked out at first, and then...well, he’s more a spirit of Vengeance now. I blame myself for that.” His regretful tone did nothing to ebb the tide of her anger.

“You’re an _abomination_!” she spat at him. “The reason the Circles are the way they are is because of mages like _you_!”

“Templars and the Chantry abuse their power just as much or more as some mages do,” he said sternly. “That doesn’t give them the right to punish every mage. Tell me the Circle treated you fairly.”

She couldn’t.

“Tell me they didn’t sentence Tranquility for the slightest infraction, or execute those who refused. Tell me you weren’t locked up like a common criminal and stripped of basic privileges any human being is entitled to.”

She remained silent.

“I knew someone in your Circle, and I know what he went through. What you and the others must have gone through. The other Circles are not much different.”

“How does that justify what you did? Do you know how many people died because of you? How many _will_ die? The Knight-Commander ordered the Rite of Annulment because of your actions. You condemned every mage in the city to death!”

“And you weren’t condemned already? If I hadn’t sparked this conflict, you’d still be locked up behind those walls, probably awaiting some punishment for anything they decided to call a crime. I did what I had to to bring about change. Messy though it was, I do not regret the few lives lost to save the many.”

She had resisted strangling him since he’d revealed his true nature, and now her will had dissolved. She lunged for him again, but the other mages formed a barrier in front of him, their faces like steel before her. 

“He saved us,” one of them said. The others nodded in agreement. “Whatever he may or may not be, what he’s done or hasn’t done, he freed us from the Circle and led us out of Kirkwall. He led _you_ out of Kirkwall.”

“You should be grateful to him,” said another. Her stomach turned. 

Anders placed his hands on the shoulders of the center most mages, and parted the barrier gently. “Let her come,” he said. “I have completed my mission and saved as many as I could. If I am to be judged for my crimes, let it be at the hands of someone of my own kind.”

The mages looked at him bewildered, but stepped aside at his request. Daena sucked in a deep breath but found she couldn’t do it. He was an abomination and he’d done a horrendous thing, but if it hadn’t been for him or what he’d done, she’d be dead. Her body would be a lifeless heap on the cold floor of the Harrowing chamber, or she’d be lost in the maze of Kirkwall, cornered by templars. She owed her life to him, almost as much as she owed Wesley, but he’d taken so many lives that the debt felt unbalanced. 

“Pray to the Maker you never see me again,” she growled, her voice low and even. She retrieved her pack and made for the exit of the cave. At the last moment, she turned, directing her next words to the other mages. “The Knight-Commander has all of your phylacteries. Templars will likely be here by morning.” It was all she could offer the poor fools. They may choose to follow a madman, but she did not wish for their efforts of escape to be in vain. 

She took one last look into the gentle eyes of the man in black, her resolve strengthening when she found no remorse there, and disappeared into the darkness.


	9. Waves of the Sea

The glint of a half-full moon provided just enough light for Daena to make her way. She headed east down the coast, unsure of where she was going, but knowing each step took her further from Kirkwall. 

After hours of blindly following her feet, her tired legs gave out from under her. She’d hardly had a moment’s rest since she left the Gallows, and even then she’d been in a cell for days. Her time with Anders and the others in the cave had been brief and far from restful. Since departing on her own, she had resisted the urge to stop and sleep, and the exhaustion had caught up with her. Her knees dug heavily into the dirt as she buried her face in her hands. Tears trickled through her fingers, silently at first, until she could no longer hold back the sobs that had built up in her chest.

Daena had lost her home. Again. And she had lost someone that had come to mean very much to her. _Again_. Someone she had come to... _no_. She refused to even think the word _love_ , for it only served to cut deeper through her shredded heart. 

Daena managed to rest her wet eyes until the sun began to peek over the horizon. Its rays casted a rosy hue over the white sands of the coast. In the distance she could see the white sails of a sizeable ship. It was a port. She stood to wipe the dirt from her cloak and pushed herself forward.

The ship grew larger as she approached it. It appeared to be a cargo ship, but the dock was swarmed with people. With Kirkwall in ashes, she assumed these must be refugees, fleeing the fighting with whatever they had left of their lives. She felt confident she could blend in well, so long as there were no templars to raid the dock. She looked around and failed to see any men in silver. 

A messy line of people stood in front of the boarding plank, most of them yelling and pleading for safe passage across the Waking Sea. The quartermaster, red-faced and beaded with sweat, was refusing admission. Daena clutched at her pack and pushed her way through the crowd.

“I said back off!” barked the quartermaster. “Ain’t none a ‘ya’s gettin’ on my boat. Not unless yer like to plump my pockets.” He gave a slimy grin and she could see an inconsistent row of yellow and brown teeth. Daena reached into her pack and dug her fingers into the fine leather pouch that was nestled there. She pulled out five sovereigns and held them out in her palm.

“Will this plump your pockets fine enough?” she asked. Some of the refugees stared at her incredulously, others in shock. With her roughened appearance, she could imagine that most people wouldn’t expect her to produce so much gold. Or any at all, really. The quartermaster eyed the gold hungrily.

“Make it ten, and I’ll let ‘ya pass,” he countered. She huffed, annoyed, but produced five more sovereigns. He snatched up the gold, his fingers gritty with grime. He bowed mockingly and waved his hand to the boat. “Welcome aboard, mi’lady.”

She was not the only one who was able to produce enough gold to secure passage, but she was one of only a few. The others that had boarded with her were clearly of higher stations, but the smears of blood and soot suggested they had lost nearly everything. They had nowhere to go, same as her. 

The ship set sail within the hour. As the sails carried them out to the Waking Sea, Daena watched as the coastline grew thinner. She could still see plumes of smoke far off in the distance where Kirkwall may or may not still stand. She wondered if Wesley was still alive, and if he’d been able to stop the Annulment. Or if everyone was dead. The thought sent a shiver through her, and she tore her eyes away. 

For ten sovereigns, she had gained passage out of the Free Marches but little else. The quartermaster stuffed her and the rest of the refugees into one medium-sized cabin. It would have been a nice space for one or two people, but there were at least ten of them. The two bunks were already claimed, so the rest found their own spots on the floor. Daena selected the corner nearest the door. She wanted to have an easy path to escape should something happen. 

Curling in her corner, her back against the wall, she clutched her pack to her chest and wrapped her cloak tightly around her. Sleep would not be easy or comfortable, but the exhaustion took a hold of her regardless and she slipped into the Fade. 

* * *

Daena realized that a ship riding the waves of the sea was not her favorite place to be. The constant rocking of the waves rolled her stomach, and she spent most of her time heaving over the side of the ship. As such, she found very little sleep. The smell of salt fish that was the entirety of their diet did little to help her. She’d nibble at the fish and choke down chunks of bread hard as stone, and then hurl them all over the side of the ship moments later. 

When sleep eluded her, which was often, she would make her way to the deck. The cabin was far too cramped for her restlessness and the smell of unwashed bodies did nothing to help her queasiness. Her stomach churned with the sea regardless of where she was, but at night she couldn’t see the waves to make it worse, and the air was fresh. 

On the first of such nights, one of the crewmen came upon her as she leaned lazily against the railing of the ship. She hadn’t heard him approach, and when he reached out to touch her behind, she jumped and spun around. He immediately pressed her against the side of the ship. She didn’t scream because who would save her? She couldn’t use magic because she’d give herself away. She could kill him and throw him into the ocean, but who’s to say she wouldn’t follow him when she was found out?

Instead, she drew the dagger that had remained sheathed at her side since she’d left the Gallows and pressed the sharp point into his groin. His bloodshot eyes grew wide and she heard a sharp intake of breath.

“You’re not the first to try, and I doubt you’ll be the last,” she seethed. “But if you don’t leave right now, _I_ will be _your_ last attempt.” He remained frozen, afraid the slightest movement would castrate him. She turned the blade to press harder, and he winced painfully. “Is that understood?” He nodded eagerly and stepped away. Stumbling backwards, he disappeared into the shadows cast by the waning moon.

Daena sheathed the dagger with trembling hands and took a slow, deep breath to still her nerves. With the memory of what had happened with Fredericks still fresh in her mind, terror had filled her at the touch of another dirty hand on her. However, in her agitated exhaustion, instincts had kicked in and she’d finally pushed back effectively. Though she still trembled with the aftershock of adrenaline, a smile crept across her lips as she thought of how the man had stumbled away in fear. She was proud that she hadn’t just rolled over and taken it. 

This was her life for several days. There were a couple of other men that had tried as the first had, and she dealt with them in turn in similar fashion. After that, no one dared go near her. Word had spread among the sea men that she could not be so easily coerced. 

They traveled a week (maybe two, she lost track of the days) until she finally saw land again. She couldn’t have been more relieved. When her feet finally touched solid ground, she had to resist the urge to fall to her hands and knees and kiss the dirt. The ship pulled into port in a Ferelden town called Amaranthine. It was a well-populated town, bustling with merchants and fisherman. She could see several structures nearby: a tavern, a few shops, a Chantry. It would be easy to disappear in a place like this. 

Daena’s first stop was the town’s outfitter. She needed to get rid of her bloodstained clothes. Considering her encounters on the ship, she also thought it might be prudent to disguise herself as a man for the time being. Traveling alone would be safer and easier, and she’d be more likely to pick up a job that paid better than a common tavern wench. 

She bought a new set of breeches, a matching jacket, and a loose-fitting tunic along with a black ribbon and a string of corded leather. After adding a better-fitting cloak to her purchases, her purse felt expectedly light. She opted for one night at the inn, which included a much-needed hot meal and a bath. She took the opportunity of privacy to clean herself of the blood and grime that had accumulated. 

Once she finished with the bath, the water almost black, Daena took up her dagger and cut away at her auburn curls until the edge of her hair brushed just below her earlobes. 

Her phylactery, which rested on the table next to the wash basin, glowed brightly. Taking the thick black ribbon, she wrapped it around the vial until the luminosity of the thick red liquid was hidden. She used the string of leather to tie off the ribbon near the cork. Tying off the free ends of the leather behind her neck, she situated the vial against her chest. She’d keep her phylactery close, safely hidden beneath her facade. 

She tore a long strip of linen from the bedsheet and wrapped it tightly around her chest to flatten her breasts. It was uncomfortable and slightly difficult to breathe, but it was necessary. Pulling on her new clothes, she stood in front of the looking glass situated above the wash basin and took stock of herself. 

She hadn’t seen herself since before she had been thrown in a cell, and the sight was jarring. It had been less than a month, but she was painfully thin and looked as if she had aged years. New lines had appeared around her eyes, the bright green irises now dim, and the corners of her mouth pulled down into a persistently tired grimace.

Daena sighed and crawled into her rented straw bed. If she hadn’t been used to cold stone floors and creaky wooden planks, she might have found the bed uncomfortable. As it was, she reveled in what little comfort it could give her knowing it would be the last of such comforts for a long time to come.


	10. Cycle of Survival

It was easier finding work than Daena expected. With the summer coming to an end, harvest season was upon the people of Amaranthine. She had limited experience with harvesting crops from her time in the mountains, given she was thirteen when she left, but the job was available to anyone willing to do the hard work and put in the long hours it required.

She worked from dawn until dusk. Living in the confines of the Circle for over a decade had done little to condition her body for such labor. For several days, she left the fields feeling stiff and broken. The weather had begun to cool, but the sun was unrelenting after so many hours of reaping crops. Without the luxury of removing her tunic, the warmth was nearly unbearable. 

Compensation was meager but included a midday meal of day old bread and dried meat. At night she would go by the local tavern for a copper’s worth of watery leek soup. It was hardly substantial, but she needed to save as much of her coin as possible. Winter was coming and work would be scarce, so she needed to save as much as she could to feed herself during the harsh months to come. Her clothes started to sag as she continued to shed the comfortable weight she had maintained at the Circle. 

Daena regularly had to find new places to sleep, and tonight was no different. She'd hidden away in stables, in the fields, and in dark corners of the alleyways. Her disguise kept away the drunken scoundrels, but someone always found her and shooed her away anyway. 

After her nightly bowl of water-for-soup, she trudged wearily to the edge of town. She pulled out her bedroll and blanket from the pack she always kept with her and situated herself along the line of trees that marked the beginning of a forest. She had yet to sleep here for fear of the creatures that may lurk in the darkness, but she had become too tired to care. 

As with every night, her thoughts turned to Wesley. She thought of his soft, kind eyes, and his dark curls tangled between her fingers. She tried to remember the feel of his warm lips over hers, and how his musk and the sweetness from the lyrium filled her senses. Wrapping her arms around herself, she imagined it was his arms holding her tightly and keeping her safe. 

What she’d promised Wesley all that time ago, became her mantra. _Promise me that you will make it out alive, and that you will continue to live._ She kept his words at the forefront of her mind. It was the only thing keeping her moving forward, even if it was barely a crawl. But, could it be considered _living_ , or merely surviving?

Despite the rumbling hunger in the pit of her stomach, she managed to fall into a restless slumber.

The next morning Daena woke to a pale dawn and packed her bedroll. She made her way to the fields and began the monotonous task of pulling carrots, onions, and turnips from the dirt. The same dry bread and meat were served to her at the same time of day, and she choked it down with the same stale warm water. The same pay of twenty coppers was handed to her in exchange for the several woven sacks she had spent hours filling to the brim with vegetables. It was hardly an equal exchange, but she was in no position to negotiate. 

Daena took the pathetic jingle of coins and headed for the tavern. In her tired mind, she tried to imagine her soup was a hearty stew. She closed her eyes and chewed every bite as if it contained a large chunk of lamb or druffalo, or carrots and potatoes. The steam rising from the bowl tickled her nose, and she imagined a warm blend of herbs and spices. 

Her fantasy was almost believable, but reality overtook her senses. She groaned miserably at the bland taste in her mouth, opened her eyes, and nearly choked on the broth from a sharp intake of breath. 

Three men clad in silver had entered the tavern. Daena’s heart pounded anxiously against her ribcage as her eyes traced the flaming sword embossed on their chest plates. _They’ve come for me_ , she thought irrationally. 

Their steely eyes scanned the room, and she fought the urge to dart. She was confident that she did not look the part of a mage, but she was less sure of the templars’ ability to sense her. It had been weeks since she had last consumed lyrium, but the blue potion could easily still flow through her veins. 

Their scrutinizing gaze swept over her and moved on as quickly as it did for everyone else in the tavern. Daena released the breath she had been holding as an audible sigh. The templars nodded at each other, satisfied that the area was safe, and sat down several tables away from her. 

They ordered ale and a medley of mediocre tavern food before giving way to conversation in voices that carried over the lulled chatter of the other patrons. 

“This investigation is useless,” one of templar’s grumbled. “We’ve located all of the escaped mages using their phylacteries. The Knight-Commander sent us here without any other vials to use. What does he expect us to find?” 

“I heard some blood mages broke into the phylactery storage and destroyed several of the vials before escaping,” said another. 

“Bullshit!” shouted the third. “That room is too well guarded. Blood mage or no, no one can get in there.”

“You saw the chaos after Meredith called the Annulment. Anything could have happened at that point.” Daena gulped at the revelation that these templars came from Kirkwall. It occurred to her that the templars had referred to the Knight-Commander as a _he_. She wondered what might have happened to Meredith and who would have replaced her. Cullen would have been the natural successor, if he still lived.

“I still don’t think any mages would’ve even bothered trying to locate the room, let alone break into it.”

“Then how is it that the Knight-Commander has sent us in search of mages without phylacteries? Where did their vials go?” Daena’s hand instinctively reached for the vial hanging from her neck beneath her clothes. She didn’t recognize the templars’ faces and she doubted they would recognize hers, especially in her disguise, but the urge to leave quickly overwhelmed her. 

She stood abruptly from her chair and slung her pack over her shoulder. Her stomach clenched when she realized that the only clear path to the door took her right past the templars’ table. She swallowed hard and struggled to keep herself from running. 

As her brisk walk took her closer to their table, the pulse in her ears masked the chatter of those around her. Someone was calling something she couldn’t quite hear.

“Boy!”

She walked faster, her vision tunneling to the door.

“Hey, boy!”

She gripped the strap of her pack tight enough to whiten her knuckles.

“Hey, you!” A cold, hard hand closed around her elbow and tugged her to a stop. One of the templars had grabbed ahold of her. She contemplated an attack with her blade so she could break free and run, but the templar spoke again before she could act.

“You selling?”

“Pardon?” she asked confused, trying to convincingly lower her voice.

“Lyrium,” he said quietly and looked around the tavern for any curious eyes. “I know you have some, I can sense it.” He reached into a pocket in his skirts and pulled out a few glimmering coins. “If you are willing to part with some, I will pay you handsomely.” He smiled charmingly.

He was not an unattractive man: fair hair, clean teeth, and a face free of blemishes. The others were about the same, but all of them had a desperate hunger in their eyes. Daena recalled the discussion she had had with Wesley in the infirmary on the night Fredericks had first attacked her. Templars were bound by the lyrium, supplied by the Chantry to keep the Order pliable. It was little more than a drug addiction.

“Y-you’re mistaken, Ser,” she stuttered nervously and hoped they wouldn’t realize that they sensed the blue potion in her veins. She tried to tug herself free, but the templar’s grip tightened. His charm melted into indignation. 

“No mistake,” he growled, his glassy eyes darkening. “I can hear it singing. It’s faint, but there. My friends hear it too, don’t you boys?” The other templars grunted their assent. “How about you be a good boy, and hand it over?” 

The templar reached for her pack with his free hand. She considered her dagger again, but it would take too much time to draw and attack, and she wouldn’t be able to pierce his armor with it, let alone fight off all of them. Instead, she flared her magic in a desperate attempt to surprise them and get away.

The hot white tendrils of her electricity danced over the skin of her arm and connected with the metal gauntlet that was still clamped over her elbow. The templar howled in pain as the lightning traveled through the body of his armor, and his hand clenched harder in response. 

“He’s a mage!” She couldn’t be sure if the shout had come from one of the men in silver or a patron of the tavern. It could’ve have been both for all she knew. 

The other templars, half-blinded by the brilliant display of sparks, staggered from their chairs to counter her attack. She withdrew her magic and the electrified templar collapsed into a convulsing heap, releasing her arm. She darted for the door and braced herself for a smite to send her face first into the floor, but it never came. It was unclear if it had been her surprise attack, or the pint of ale they had consumed, that kept them from responding efficiently, but she didn’t wait around to find out.

Daena pushed through the door and fled for the trees. The templars could not keep up with her in their heavy armor, and she quickly disappeared into the cover of the darkness of the forest.

* * *

Daena ran for what felt like hours until she no longer heard the shouts and clank of pursuit. In her haste, she had failed to note which direction she had fled but continued on anyway. The rushing sound of water reached her ears and she followed it to find a river too wide to cross. 

Bending down, she scooped up the cool water and splashed it on her face. She gasped at the cold sting and proceeded to drink her fill of the fresh water. 

She was at a loss for what to do next. She had to avoid well-populated towns now that templars were in search of her and any other escaped mages, especially since the lyrium in her system was still detectable to those sensitive to it. Large cities could mask her presence for a time, but if she came across any templars, which was likely, she’d be found. She would simply have to keep moving on her own.

At the bite of a cold wind, she shivered and bundled her cloak tightly around her. Gathering twigs and leaves into a small pyre, she sparked a flame to build a fire. Her stomach growled with hunger she could not satiate, and she wrapped her arms around her middle in an attempt to quiet it.

A rustle nearby startled her and she turned to stare into the darkness. Her eyes strained to detect any movement, but there was nothing. When the rustle came again, she slung her pack across her shoulders and quickly climbed the nearest tree. 

She waited silently, afraid to move, until a furry brown blob sauntered out of the bushes. A bear drawn by the fire approached her camp and sniffed around for food she didn’t have. She was relieved it was not a person, but withheld a sigh. It could still climb the tree and drag her down if she was discovered.

After a few minutes, the bear meandered off into the darkness again. Daena’s sigh of relief was followed by a breathy laugh as her nerves trembled beneath her skin. She leaned her back against the trunk of the tree and straddled her legs around a thick branch until she felt stable enough to fall asleep. 

Daena dreamed of being back in the Circle, but it was different. Mages and templars were getting along, learning from each other instead of fearing one another. Wesley was there, happy and healthy. The smile on his face was unlike any she had seen, and it warmed her heart. Some of the mages’ families were there as well, which had never been allowed before. 

She scanned the room, watching as people embraced and laughed and kissed. Her eyes stopped on a pair of shadowed figures, and the jovial ambience of the dream drained away. Her heart clenched in her chest as everything around her faded into darkness, and the shadowed figures came into focus. 

Her parents, blackened with the burns she had given them, approached her. She closed her eyes against the horror she didn’t want to remember. Fear gripped her rapidly-beating heart and twisted it into something she did not recognize. She lashed out in a rage, the tendrils of her lightning piercing through the darkness that had surrounded her. The brightness blinded her, and the heat of the power burned her skin, but she didn’t stop. She _couldn’t_ stop. 

When the last of her energy sputtered out of her fingertips, she fell to her knees and took in the scene before her. The templars, mages, and their families were all dead, their bodies charred and smoking. She looked frantically for Wesley, but she had burned every person beyond recognition. _No, no, no!_

She closed her eyes again and screamed.

She woke with a start and gasped for air. Sweat beaded her forehead and her heart pounded wildly in her chest. The sun had risen high in the sky and warmed the day enough for her to remove her cloak. Her throat was raw as if she had been screaming in her sleep, and she surveyed her surroundings for anyone (or anything) that might have come investigating. No one was in sight, but she noticed scorch marks across the bark of the tree.

Tracing the black marks with trembling fingers, she thought back on the night Wesley had woken her in the Circle’s library. If he hadn’t been there to subdue her magic while she slept, she could have done as much or more damage as she had done to the tree. The Order may have put her to Rite or executed her on the spot.

Daena no longer had Wesley to look out for her. She was alone and hungry, and she had to keep moving.

She tried her hand at catching fish from the river, but only succeeded in cleansing her skin and clothes with each unsuccessful plunge into the water. In her early years she had helped her father set snares for small game. Utilizing what little she remembered, she built a trap out of twigs and strips of cloth she tore from the bottom of her shirt to catch fennecs. 

Her first catch, however, was difficult. Killing the poor animal was hard enough, but she had never gutted and skinned one before. Her father had always done it. However she knew she had to, or the bowels would taint the meat. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard against the bile burning in her throat. 

Her first attempt was messy, and she vomited three times, but she got the job done. She obtained very little meat that wasn’t still covered in hair, but it was enough to satisfy the nagging hunger. With each new catch, she skinned the creatures more proficiently with her dagger, which she then saved, allowed to dry, and eventually began lining her boots and jacket with, as the days and nights grew colder. 

Days turned into weeks in this cycle of survival. Daena would follow the river by day, furs hanging off her pack, and set traps near her camp in the evening. She’d sleep in the trees at night and wake to clear her traps of the animals she would then prepare before starting off on another day’s travel.


	11. Trust is a Funny Thing

The weather cooled significantly as winter fully set in, and Daena’s clothes were no longer sufficiently warm, even with the fennec furs she had lined her clothing with. She had followed the river until it came to an end near the edge of a well-worn road. She considered whether she should follow the road to whatever town it might lead to. She knew, however, that she was unprepared to survive the coldest months in the forest and could very well freeze to death without proper shelter or clothing. 

Daena was anxious of re-entering a bulk of the population. She had lost count, but thought it had been over six weeks since her encounter in Amaranthine with the templars in the tavern. She couldn’t be completely certain the lyrium was clear of her system. If she came across even one templar that recognized the song in her blood, she would be on the run for her life again. It was a risk, but she had no other option but to take it, and took her first steps down the road. 

She promptly came across a sign directing her to the city of Denerim, and arrived at its gates only a few days later. Like Amaranthine, Denerim was a port town and bustled with just as much activity. The little coin she had earned from her previous work, along with the extra furs she was able to sell, was enough to get her a pair of wool breeches, a heavy woven shirt, and a bowl of stew and draught of ale at the local tavern.

Her body warm from her new clothes and hot meal, she set herself for the door to find a place to rest for the night. When she passed through the crowd, a mingled conversation caught her attention.

“My brother is a templar at the Ostwick Circle. He says things aren’t much better there. Mages everywhere are going crazy. He says every Circle is on the brink of collapse.”

“Every Circle? Even the one over at Lake Calenhad?”

“Every one. A sort of rebellion, the way I hear it.” 

“But that’s so close! Do you think the mages will break free and attack here like they did in Kirkwall?”

“Hard to say. The templars are holding fast, but for how long? My brother says generally there are far more mages than templars at any given Circle. If the mages rebel, they very well could destroy us all.”

Daena heard the people gasp and mutter until the conversation faded back into the even chatter of the room. She emerged from the tavern and breathed in the cool night air.

The rebellion had reached Ferelden, possibly even Orlais. For decades, mages had been under the rule of the Chantry and its Order, but never had the situation become so dire as to outright rebel. She thought Kirkwall had been a special case, falling victim to the will of an incompetent leader. 

When she was at Kinloch Hold, only some of the mages had rebelled, drunk on blood magic. It didn’t trigger the same sort of chain reaction Thedas was experiencing now. If all of the Circles were to fall, and if the Order fails to contain it, Thedas would see a war with ramifications on par with a Blight.

Mages achieving the freedom and equality they desired was one thing. Extensive reform should have taken place ages ago. Mages having to _fight_ for that freedom was quite another. 

* * *

Daena weaved her way through the back alleys to find a dark and quiet place to sleep. Unfortunately, all she found was Denerim’s seedy underbelly. Shady dealings were taking place around every corner, and she could see the glint of daggers peeking out of several waistbands and sleeves. She gripped her own dagger more tightly with every step.

The path eventually led her to another tavern. It was dimly lit and the inside bellowed with rowdy voices and music. Above the door swung a wooden sign with a crude carving of something round nestled inside an open clam. _The Pearl._

Unwilling to sleep unguarded in the streets with so many criminals about, Daena elected to give what little coin she had for a small room for the night until she could figure out what to do next. She walked through the door and barely dodged a rather enthusiastic fist fight that spilled into the street.

The establishment was less crowded than she expected from the cacophony she had heard from the street. Some patrons were gathered around tables playing cards. One table was playing what appeared to be an incredibly risky game involving knives and fingers. All were drinking heavily from large steins while laughing and singing a muddled tune. No one seemed to have noticed or cared that she, someone who very much did not belong, had entered.

Daena approached the bar to request a room.

“Drink first!” the barkeep shouted, seemingly half-drunk himself.

“Just a room, if you have one.” She waved away the rotten stench that seeped from his mouth.

“No room without—” He hiccuped, and then, “a drink first!” 

Daena stared at him dumbfounded for several seconds before the clink of coins clattered on the bar in front of her. 

“Two ales, Charlie. For me and my _friend_.” A busty woman with copper skin trained her amber eyes on Daena. Thin white cotton stretched around the woman’s curves in a provocative fashion, and a blue scarf was tied through her raven hair. Her lips curled into a sultry smile as her bright eyes studied Daena from head to toe. 

The barkeep, Charlie, produced the drinks and the woman pushed one toward her. Daena eyed her curiously. The woman tilted her head in invitation and stepped away to take a seat at an empty table. Daena followed hesitantly and sat across from her.

“You know,” said the strange woman. “You’re too pretty to hide as a man.” Daena’s eyes widened and she looked around for any eavesdroppers. No one was listening. Or perhaps, no one cared. 

“I-I’m not—I mean I _am_ a…” Daena stuttered and blushed profusely.

“It’s alright, sweet thing,” the woman giggled. “Your disguise isn’t _that_ obvious.”

“And yet you figured me out at a glance,” she responded, taking a swig of her ale. Her face soured at the taste, not expecting the drink to taste more like sewage than ale, and the strange woman laughed. 

“Of course I did. I’m a woman. Women are far more perceptive than men.” She wet her lips with ale and said, “Tits are all men see. Take those away and you’re invisible.”

“Right.” Daena glanced down at her flattened chest.

“So, what are you hiding from, sweet thing?” Daena stared defiantly into her glimmering eyes.

“Who says I’m hiding at all? Perhaps I choose to dress this way because it’s... _easier_.”

“Every person here is hiding from something,” she retorted, waving her hand around the room. “Or _running_ from something.” The woman’s knowing eyes peered at Daena from over the rim of her mug as she took another swig. 

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

Daena considered the woman for several moments. She was a stranger, but a kind one. Daena knew nothing of who she was or what her motives might be, but something about her made Daena comfortable. Daena drank deeply until the sour ale was gone and said, “Let’s just say I come from somewhere I’d rather not return, and there may or may not be people looking to bring me back.”

The woman’s eyes crinkled with a satisfied grin. “That is an exceptionally vague answer, but I’ll take it. I, too, have come from somewhere I’d rather not return, and there may or may not be people looking to bring me back.” She laughed, and then said “I could use someone like you on my crew.”

“Your crew?”

“I captain a ship: the _Siren’s Call_. She’s a beauty, and I think she’d love you.”

“I doubt that. The last ship I was on rocked me about and kept me sick for days. I don’t think I’m fond of the sea.” Her stomach churned at the reminder.

“You get used to it,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “And when you do, it’s really quite lovely. And _safe_. Well, safer than land anyway.”

“How's that?” 

“You’re harder to find out there, which means that you’re harder to capture. Generally, the only people you encounter on the waves are other smugglers and pirates.”

“And are you a smuggler or a pirate?” Daena asked, crossing her arms.

“Can’t a lady be both?” she replied with a wink.

“I don’t know a thing about smuggling.”

The woman leaned in with an arched brow. “Do you want to?” 

“I’m not sure. Is it dangerous?”

“Of course it is, but what isn’t these days?”

“I was a farm hand once. That was hardly dangerous.”

“But _boring_! You could have died from boredom. I’d say that’s pretty dangerous.” A bubbling laugh rose unbidden in Daena’s chest.

“I’m still no match for the sea,” she responded, gripping her stomach.

“I have herbs that can help that, and after awhile you won’t need them.”

“You don’t even know who I am, what I’ve done, or what I might do. Do you always trust strangers this much?”

“Trust is a funny thing,” she answered and did not elaborate. “What’s your name?”

“Daena,” she offered out of habit, and then uttered a curse. She hadn’t intended to give her real name. Did she want the templars to track her down so easily?

“And now you’re no stranger. I set sail the day after tomorrow. Stay with me here at _The Pearl_ until then, help me and my crew secure our cargo, and you have a place on my ship. What do you say, sweetling?”

Daena didn’t know what to say and simply stared, stupefied at this strange woman’s offer. She tried to think of reasons to decline but came up with nothing. She had no other plans and no other destinations. She could disappear into the wild again, but for how long? With the rebellion spreading, how easily could she stay ahead of the templars on her own? Daena had no love of ships, but this woman had a point. She would be harder to find away from the land that was becoming increasingly hostile toward mages. 

As Daena contemplated her decision, a man wobbled up to their table, his glassy eyes trained on the other woman. 

“Fuck this piss-ant, love,” the man slurred, his grimy fingers pointing at Daena. “His cock can’t fill you proper like mine can.” He swayed on his feet trying to shove his groin into the woman’s face.

“What do you know of his cock?” the dark woman responded with a teasing smile. “Have you sucked it before?” 

The drunkard did not take kindly to her jest. He muttered, “Bitch,” and swung his fist at her. She caught it, stood, cranked his arm behind his back, and pressed a dagger to his groin in one fluid motion. 

“If you have any love of your cock, you’ll leave this _fine establishment_ now.” She tilted the blade so that the sharp point dug deeper into the the fabric of his breeches. 

The man squeaked and nodded his head. The woman let him go and watched cheerfully as he stumbled for the door. 

Daena had killed a man with her dagger and had threatened many others, but she didn’t know how to properly _fight_ with one. She had an inkling that this strange woman did. Daena stood and stepped to the woman’s side. “What’s your name?” she finally asked.

“Call me Isabela, love,” she replied without taking her eyes from the door. 

“Well, Isabela, show me how to a use a blade, and you’ve got yourself a new crewmate.”


	12. Beginning of Change

Daena adapted well to the life of a smuggler. The process was simple enough: pick up the cargo, deliver the cargo, get paid for the cargo. Don’t ask questions, and don’t get caught. With Isabela’s guidance, she quickly picked up these principles.

Adjusting to life on a ship was the hardest part. She spent the first several days hanging her green face over the railing, emptying her insides into the turbulent waters. The herbs Isabela had given her failed to counter the sea sickness. She cursed Isabela for subjecting her to such torture as often as she cursed the Maker for giving her an exceedingly adept equilibrium. With time, however, her body adjusted to the motions of the sea, and she was finally able to stand straight without falling over or puking her guts out with every sway of the ship. 

Being with Isabela, Daena felt comfortable enough to shed her gender-bending facade. Isabela offered items from her own clothing trunk, but due to the scarcity of fabric, Daena tactfully declined. Instead, she helped Daena secure a well-fitted pair of leather pants, a new pair of knee-high flat-heeled boots, and a long-sleeve tunic that fit to the form of what few curves she possessed. Her cloak was no longer serviceable against the cold. With the spray of the sea, she was constantly damp and chilled.

Daena found that a glass (or three) of honey whiskey kept her warmer than any cloak and was unexpectedly conducive to her seasickness. Her face soured on the very first sip, but the warmth that spread over her chest was blissful. The first time she drank one glass too many, she found herself giggling about nothing at all until she passed out. The head-splitting hangover she received the next morning did not deter her from the liquid warmth, and she started off the day with another glass. 

Isabela’s crew was not overly friendly at first. Most of them were men, but there were a few other women. All of them were hardened and weathered from a life at sea. Daena wondered how Isabela could still look so smooth and beautiful. She determined it must have something to do with her resilient Rivaini skin. After a few nights on the mess deck drinking and telling stories, the crew loosened up and Daena found it easier to interact with them. She didn’t have any stories of her own that she was willing to share, but after a few jobs with her new crewmates, she had several new experiences to reflect upon.

Her first job had been nerve-wracking. She had several questions that she decided to keep to herself. Who were those shady people? What would happen if they were caught? Was the cargo stolen or volatile? _Don’t ask questions_ , she had to remind herself. Her heart had raced at a hundred beats a minute and her face flushed hot. She had never done anything illegal before. _Escaping the Circle doesn’t count_ , she had amended to herself. 

The first job had taken them to Amaranthine. The illegalities of their activity had been overshadowed by the fear of being identified and captured. Worse, the cargo had been lyrium. Scenarios had raced through Daena’s mind: she’d be face to face with templars, they’d take her, she’d fight, _everyone would die_. In reality, they hadn’t had to deal with templars at all, at least not directly. They had smuggled in the lyrium and made the exchange with the merchants who would turn around and sell it. Templars had been in the city, however. _Still searching for rogue mages_ , she’d guessed, and there had been more of them than before. When the deal was done and they had returned to the ship, she thanked the Maker she had remained undetected.

That night her nightmares had returned. She had woken to a banging on her cabin door and found a singed cot and charred planks. Isabela had heard her screaming, and she was fortunate that the door had been locked. 

“What’s all this racket now, love?” Isabela asked when Daena finally opened the door. Then she saw the the residual sparks at her fingertips and the marks left behind in the room. “Ah, so you’re a mage then. That explains a lot.” She crossed her arms, but didn’t appear angry.

“I’m sorry,” Daena whispered, her voice raw. “I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off and looked over her shoulder at the disaster area.

“What happened exactly?” Daena explained her dreams, without giving any real details, and the unconscious expulsion of her magic.

“That sounds bloody awful,” she blurted, and then said more softly, “Sorry.” She entered the room and shut the door. “What we need to do is burn off that energy.”

“I can’t just _do magic_ out here, or anywhere.”

“Not that kind of energy, sweetling. We can start your training. That should wear you out plenty.” She giggled, and then added, “Or if you’d prefer, we can pull into port and _find someone_ to wear you out instead.” 

“Maker, _no_!” Daena’s cheeks flushed red and Isabela erupted with laughter. 

Isabela kept her secret, for which Daena was extremely grateful. Weeks turned into months as they traveled from port to port along the coasts of Ferelden, the Free Marches, and Antiva. Daena found it odd, but fortunate, that they avoided the port in Kirkwall. 

The time at sea was spent learning the art of combat with daggers. During Daena’s first lessons, she frequently fell face-first into the deck, thanks to the unrelenting waves. 

“If you can learn to dance out here, you can dance anywhere,” Isabela said with a twirl of her glimmering twin fangs. Daena only had one of her own and had to use a wooden stick as her second. “Size and weight do not matter as much as your movement.” Daena disagreed more and more with every bruise and cut she was dealt. It was weeks before she was able to deal any herself. 

“Very good, pup,” Isabela praised when a slice opened and bled on her upper arm. “Remember to aim higher in a real fight, love.” She smiled, sheathed her daggers, and planted a kiss on Daena’s ruddy cheek.

As for the other form of _exercise_ , Daena did not partake. 

“You need to loosen up, pup. You need a good lay,” Isabela teased. 

“No, I do not,” Daena retorted, squirming uncomfortably. She didn’t intend for her first time to be with a complete stranger in a seedy tavern. 

“You come from a Circle right? I hear mages are plenty active. How long has it been since you left?” she asked. “Surely you must be aching for _something_ , right?” Isabela winked and tapped a finger on Daena’s nose. 

“I’d rather not say,” she scowled. Realization lit Isabela’s face.

“You’ve never…” Isabela gasped and hid a smirk behind her fingers. When Daena failed to respond to the implied question, she had her answer. “How does a pretty girl like you keep her cunt to herself for this long?”

“Izzy!” Daena blushed furiously.

“What? It’s an honest question.” Isabela struggled to withhold her giggles. “No one ever wanted to...I mean, I know there was probably little privacy in those places, but wasn’t there someone that you wanted to just fuck ravenously in some dark corner?”

“Maker, no!” she answered quickly. Wesley came to mind, and she blushed a deeper shade of crimson. “Not...not _really_.”

“Oh,” Isabela sang. “So there was someone.” She leaned in, her eyes wide. “Do tell, love.”

Daena sighed, surrendering to her friend’s persistence. She proceeded to tell her everything about Wesley, being careful not to reveal the Circle she came from or the way he’d helped her escape it. She told her of the way he’d tackled her on the day of her Harrowing, the genuine concern he’d had when he’d saved her from Fredericks, and the way his dark curls had fallen into his eyes when he looked down at her after their kiss.

“Naughty naughty!” Isabela teased. “A templar? I can certainly see the appeal of a man in uniform armor,” she purred. 

“Yes, well attraction doesn’t matter in the end,” she said solemnly. “I’ll likely never see him again. Besides, it would be bad news for me if I did, wouldn’t it? Mages and templars don’t get along, especially now.” 

With each landfall they made, Daena gathered as much information as she could regarding the rebellion. Thus far, the news had not been promising. The rebellion had spread and the Circles were rapidly crumbling. Mages and templars were on the brink of an all-out war across Thedas. 

Incidentally, their jobs became more frequent and highly profitable with lyrium becoming an extremely desirable commodity.

Isabela dropped the subject of Wesley, but continued to urge Daena to join her at the tavern for some fun. She obliged, but insisted that she would not be participating in the manhunt. However, Daena did observe Isabela as she interacted with the men in the tavern. She noted the way she used her curves to talk more than her lips. She was fascinated at how easily Isabela could snatch a man with a glance and a few choice words whispered at the ear. The shiver that went through the men’s frames was visible from across the room. The way Isabela used her sex appeal for her own gain made Daena curious.

When men approached Daena, however, she would simply snarl and wave them away. It was a trick she had learned from one of the rougher-looking female crewmates. She found that men had no desire to work hard when picking up a lady, so her deterrent behavior worked like a charm. 

* * *

When months turned into years, Daena’s nightmares became fewer and her uncontrolled outbursts were non-existent, thanks to her training and new meditation techniques. She had upgraded from a wooden stick to a well-forged fang of obsidian and serpentstone. The dagger had been an unexpected gift from Isabela. The glint of the green stone matched her eyes, Isabela had said. 

Daena fingered her daggers absently as she and Isabela entered a tavern at the port in Wycome. It was an especially gritty place, but Daena no longer cared about such things. Taverns such as these may be dirty and dangerous, but they were also hubs of information.

As with every landfall, she inquired about the state of the rebellion with anyone who seemed coherent enough to answer her. The chance of finding any useful news this far north was slim, but with the rebellion being as widespread as it was, she might still learn something. 

“The Circle of Magi has dissolved,” the informant explained, after several coins had been dropped into his palm. “Mages have dispersed. They’re apostates now, and templars are still trying to control them. It’s been bloody, to put it mildly.”

Daena nodded, disappointed but not surprised at the news. 

“Templars shoulda killed those Maker-damned mages, the whole lot of them!” shouted another patron. “They waited too long to wipe the slate of every Circle, and now those monsters are free to kill us all!”

“Pardon?” Daena turned to the man who was double her height and breadth. He had a drink in his hand, but he appeared more than stable. 

“If they weren’t gonna lock ‘em all away like the demons they are, the templars shoulda just killed them and been done with it. Now we’ll all suffer!”

Daena breathed deeply through her nose and moved closer to the man, her face unflinching.

“Mages are not monsters, _ser_ ,” she said, spitting the last word at him. “They are men and women just like you and me. The crimes of the few do not justify mass murder.” She placed her hands on her hips, resting just above her daggers.

“Filthy mage-lover,” the man grumbled. “Mages are too dangerous. They should be wiped clean of this world the moment they show any signs of magic.”

“Ah, I see.” She smiled wickedly. “By that logic, everyone should be killed.” He stared at her dumbly. “That man over there,” she said, pointing to a random person across the room. “He’s raped and killed a slew of young woman. If what you propose is sound, I should wipe clean you and every man from this world. Your cock makes you capable of the same crime.”

“It’s not the same!”

“Isn’t it? Mages do not choose to be born with magic, just as you did not choose to be born with a puny little cock.”

“You bitch!” He lunged for her, but she stepped out of the way swiftly. Drawing a rusty dagger from his belt, the man kicked away some chairs to clear a space. He crouched predatorily and waved the dagger to declare the fight. 

Daena couldn’t hold back an airy laugh as she drew her own daggers and threw herself into the duel. The contrast of silver and black blended to a steel grey with glints of green in the air as she danced around the man’s futile strikes. Daena hardly felt the weight of the daggers anymore, as they had become extensions of her own hands. She gripped the hilts to hear the creak of the leather wraps and briefly wondered if it was possible to charge the metal with her magic. 

The thought was pointless since she didn’t intend to use her magic for fear of being discovered by a templar or another crewmate. Isabela had earned her trust, but Daena was smart enough to know not to give her trust so freely. Any one of their crewmates could potentially be a self-serving traitor who would see the profit in handing her over to the Order. Daena couldn’t fault them. It was their nature as brigands. 

The man was strong, but incredibly slow, and she bested him quickly. After a few quick cuts to his arms and face, she managed to kick his dagger from his grasp. In his state of shock, she pushed him backward and he fell into a table, breaking it in half with his monstrous weight. 

“If you want to blame anyone for the rebellion,” she said as she crouched near his head. “Blame the Chantry and their Circles. A person can only be caged and beaten down for so long before they decide to fight back.” She smiled sweetly and stood to her full height.

He struggled to get up, and she kicked her boot across his jaw, knocking him out cold. “Arsehole,” she muttered. 

“Beautifully played, love.” Isabela linked her arm with hers. “Time to go?”

“Indeed.”

* * *

Nearly four years had passed since Daena had first set sail with Isabela on the _Siren’s Call_. Despite the constant danger of criminal activity and frequent battles with the stormy seas that threatened to drown them all, they had been the best years of her life thus far. She had learned the art of negotiation and mastered the necessity of discretion. She could defend herself without her magic and carried herself well in a fight. She had traveled the world and experienced the many cultures through the ports they had docked. 

Most importantly, she had gained a friend. Isabela had taken her in and given her purpose. Thedas had been slowly tearing apart at the seams, and yet Isabela had kept her secret and hidden her nature from the Order and everyone else. She’d given Daena the ability to take care of herself and the strength to _keep moving_.

It was with a heavy heart that Daena decided to leave Isabela and the crew of the _Siren’s Call_ behind. 

They had docked in the small town of West Hill off the coast of northern Ferelden. It was a simple supply run, no outstanding job. Daena and Isabela sat in the local tavern matching each other shot for shot of brandy to see who would fall out of her chair first. Daena always lost, but she could never deny the challenge. 

A conversation nearby floated through the room and met Daena’s ears through the muddled chatter of the taproom. 

“The Divine seems confident the Conclave will work,” stated a man’s gravely voice. “If you ask me, it’ll be a disaster. Mages and templars under one roof, bartering for peace?” The man snorted. “Nugs’ll fly before that happens.” He cackled and took a swig of his ale. 

Before Daena could think better of it, she stood from her seat and took three strides to reach the man’s table. She could faintly hear Isabela’s confused voice behind her.

“What’s this about a Conclave?” she demanded of the man who sat staring at her with his nose in his mug. 

“You haven’t heard?” he responded and took another deep gulp before pushing away the empty mug.

“It’s a barter for peace?” she asked. 

“So they say. But if you ask me—” 

“Where is it?” she interrupted. “When?”

“At the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in Haven,” he answered. “In about a week.”

At the mention of Haven, Daena’s stomach knotted and her throat tightened. 

“Thanks,” she croaked and turned back to her table to find Isabela standing behind her. 

“Stuff your thanks,” the man barked. “Buy me a drink!”

Isabela looked over Daena’s shoulder at the half-drunk old man. “Shut up, you. Buy your own damn drinks!” The man tried to stand for a confrontation, but stumbled back into his seat. 

“It’s fine, Izzy,” Daena said, her voice distant. She turned and dropped a coin on the table and made for the door without another word. 

“Pup, what is it?” Isabela asked as she followed her outside. She did not answer. “Daena, what happened?”

The Conclave could be the first legitimate step toward peace. After the Circle of Magi had dissolved a year or so back, Daena had begun to lose hope that the war would ever come to an end. Now there was a chance for an armistice, and Daena should have been elated. She was relieved to an extent, but the idea that the concord would take place in Haven of all places had her head spinning.

She couldn’t imagine anything good coming from the village in which she grew up. Sure, it had become a holy site, likely blessed by the Divine herself, but Daena knew the truth of the place and its history. No one had even known of Haven before the Hero of Ferelden found it and cleared it out. No one knew the true nature of the people who had lived there. 

Yet, she found herself curious to know how the Conclave would play out. Could peace truly be possible? It would be a sight worth seeing. She was certain that high-ranking members from both sides would be in attendance, and her thoughts drifted to Wesley. _He might be there_ , she considered with a new spark of hope. A faint smile adorned her lips. 

“Copper for your thoughts, love?” Isabela stood with her hands on her hips, her foot tapping impatiently. 

“I have to go,” she answered with a sad smile. 

“Go where?” Daena explained what she had learned of the Conclave and why she felt it necessary to attend. After she finished, Isabela asked, “How do you expect me to find another first mate like you?”

“You won’t,” Daena quipped and pulled Isabela into a hug. “Quit looking like someone kicked your favorite nug. I’ll keep in touch.”

“If you find Wesley,” she whispered, her lips at Daena’s ear. “Be sure to…” Daena had heard a great many things living among the pirates and smugglers, but the obscenities that Isabela could spill from her filthy mind still made Daena blush from ear to ear. She giggled and slapped Isabela on the arm. 

“Maker, I’ll miss you Izzy.” Daena kissed Isabela on the cheek and gave her another squeeze.

“When the Conclave is over, you can always come back,” Isabela offered. “You know where we port.” 

Daena nodded. She didn’t want to make promises for a future she didn’t know. If the Conclave could achieve peace, she didn’t know what that would that mean for the Circles. Would she be willing to leave behind her new life to give herself over to whatever new order came to be? It was doubtful, but she couldn’t know for sure what might happen.

They made their way back to the ship so Daena could collect her things. With her pack full of supplies and her daggers secured at her hips, she turned away from the ship that had been her home. If the weathered signs were accurate, the Imperial Highway would take her straight to Haven, and wouldn’t take longer than a few days on foot. 

Daena clutched her stomach and could not deny the unmistakable feeling that something bad would happen. As Daena moved down the highway, the knot of nervousness grew. She tried to focus on the good rather than what could go wrong. Mages and templars could potentially find peace. The war would be over and she may no longer be considered an apostate in hiding. Whether she would actually come out of hiding was something else entirely, but she clinged to the hope that mages would no longer be persecuted for simply being born.

Her heart raced at the thought of seeing Wesley again. She couldn’t be sure he was alive or if he’d even be at the Conclave if he was. However, as much as she wanted to, she had no intention of revealing herself to him. Too much time had passed, and people change and move on. She didn’t wish to disturb his life. She simply needed a glimpse into it. To see his face again, to know he was alive and well, would be enough to help keep her _moving forward_. 

* * *

Daena arrived at the Conclave a few days later. She hardly recognized Haven, but that wasn’t unexpected. It had been about sixteen years since she’d lived in the tiny village. Admittedly, she couldn’t even make out much of the new Haven given the massive crowd of people that filled it. She could see staves and swords, colorful robes and silver armor, and a great number of people that didn’t fit either category. The Conclave had suddenly become a real thing.

She swallowed the nervous lump that had risen in her throat and flowed with the crowd up a mountain to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The ornate structure stood tall and seemed to touch the sky. Her people had been the guardians of Andraste’s ashes, but as a child, she had never been sure the Urn even existed. The dragon had been real enough, so the supposed existence of the holy relic didn’t matter to her in the end. Now, the dragon was gone and the ashes were on display for the world to see. 

Her eyes scanned the templars in the crowd, looking for Wesley, but the mass of people made it impossible to distinguish any faces. Many of the templars also wore their helmets so she couldn’t identify anyone for certain. She was determined to keep looking. 

She reached up, pulled from beneath her collar the ribbon-wrapped vial that still hung from her neck, and gripped it tightly in her fingers. The warmth pulsed as it always did, and she tried to match her breathing with the steady beat. 

Crossing the threshold of the Temple, she melted into the background of the gathering forces of mages and templars. She shadowed passed an outfit of guards and through a set of doors to find a way to the upper mezzanine for a better view of what she hoped would be the beginning of change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've made it to the Conclave! As my beta puts it, "It only took 12 chapters!" 
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for making it this far with me. Getting views and kudos makes my day every day. Thanks for reading!


	13. Another Nightmare

The pounding in Daena’s head began as a distant ache, a muffled throbbing she could barely feel through the waves of darkness she was swimming through. When the darkness began to fade to light, a strange green glow brought the throbbing beneath her skull to a painful crescendo that refused to break and roiled her stomach. She instinctively reached for her abdomen, but her hands didn’t move. They _couldn’t_ move. 

For a split second, Daena thought that she was in Kirkwall again, locked away in the cells beneath the Circle. She almost believed her time on the run and with Isabela had been a long and intricate dream. 

Then the clinking sound of chains brought her fully aware. Her eyes flew open and she squinted against the green light that had been the source of the glow. And the source of the light was from... _her hand?_

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now!” The voice, a strange lilt belonging to a woman, startled her and she flinched. Before she could look up to meet the eyes of her supposed captor, the woman grasped Daena’s glowing hand and raised it up. 

The sudden movement caused a pain, sharp and hot, to stab at the palm of her hand. It spread up to her shoulder and across her chest, the burn rippling across the branches of her nerves like lightning. Daena grunted and tried to pull her hand away from the woman’s vice grip. After a few futile tugs, the woman finally let go.

“The Conclave has been destroyed,” the woman continued. “Everyone who attended is dead. Except for _you_.” Daena tried to process the information and realized she had no memory of what had happened. She had attended the Conclave. She remembered seeing mages and templars and clerics. She remembered looking for Wesley...and then nothing. Her mind was blank. Most of the Conclave was a dark spot on the timeline of her memory. 

She looked up into the dark eyes of the woman, saw the accusatory glance, and realized she was the prime suspect of whatever had happened. Daena met her glare with a defiant scowl and remained silent.

The woman grabbed her hand again. “Explain this! What did you do?!” She released her hand with enough force to send Daena lurching forward. 

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” she spit back. Daena stared into the green light and tried to push through the darkness in her mind to find the truth. The effort was fruitless and made her head hurt more. “I don’t even know what this is, or how I got it.”

“Liar!” the woman growled and grabbed her by the shoulders. She began to shake her, as if the truth would come tumbling out. Daena wished it could be that easy.

“We _need_ her, Cassandra!” A second woman with a different accent pulled the first woman off of her. 

Daena’s stomach clenched as she tried to imagine what might have happened. Everyone was dead, and she was thought responsible? She could never have done such a thing, but the strange mark on her hand and the lack of memory filled her with doubt. She hadn’t had an unconscious outburst for years, but the fact that she was even capable of it did little to ease the disquiet that flared within her. 

_Wesley_...If he had been there, and everyone was killed...Her nightmares might have finally come true. 

“What do you remember?” It was the second woman, more fair than the first, and more gentle in tone. 

“I attended the Conclave,” Daena answered unsteadily. She remembered the Temple well enough because it had been a surreal sight to behold. Haven had once been her home, and it had looked nothing like she remembered. The quiet, secluded village had become a bustling center for religious pilgrimage, just as Wesley had said.

“Why were you there?” demanded the woman deemed Cassandra.

“The same reason anyone was there,” Daena retorted, avoiding a direct answer.

“Go on,” the second woman urged gently.

“I was running,” Daena continued, the thought flowing out of her as if it had always been there, though she couldn’t remember where she had been or where she was running to. “Something was chasing me. These... _creatures_...” Flashes of many glossy eyes and spindly legs came across her mind and she shivered. “There was a woman,” she recalled suddenly. It was a revelation, a spark of a clue that could lead to some answers, for her and her captors. 

“A woman?”

“I remember a bright light. She reached out to me, and then…” The memory, at once sharp and clear, quickly became a distant dream. The harder she grasped for it, the more it faded and slipped away. She sighed, frustrated. 

Cassandra turned to the other. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.” When Leliana left the room, Cassandra returned her attention to Daena and dragged her to her feet by her chains. 

“Where are you taking me? What happened?” Daena demanded. 

“It would be easier to show you,” she answered despondently. 

* * *

Green, the same as the mark on Daena’s hand, warped the sky. A twisted hole pierced the clouds with the same sickening glow that had become anchored to her palm. The green pulsed violently, both in the sky and in her hand, and she fell to her knees in agony. 

“We call it ‘The Breach’,” Cassandra explained, ignoring her pained cries. “Demons have been pouring from it for days. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. It grows larger by the hour.” Cassandra turned from the Breach to her prisoner. “It was caused by the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.”

“An explosion can do _that_?” Daena was reminded of the explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall. Though she did not witness it, she tried to imagine what an explosion fueled by magic could do to the natural world. No such rift had formed in Kirkwall. The strength of magic that would have caused _this_ must be...unimaginable.

“This one did. The Breach is growing and will soon swallow the world. It must be stopped.”

As if on queue, the Breach flared again and sent a shockwave of pain through Daena’s body. She almost couldn’t feel it beneath the buzzing of the previous surge. _Almost_.

“Each time the Breach expands, that mark on your hand grows with it.” Her eyes were sharp and cold. “It is killing you. It could be the key to stopping this, but we can’t know for certain.”

“So you still think I did this? To _myself_?” she asked incredulously. 

“Perhaps not intentionally. It could have been a spell gone wrong. You are a mage, after all.” 

“I am _not_ a mage,” she lied. Daena had not worn traditional robes or carried a staff since the day she’d left Kirkwall. Cassandra was not dressed as a templar, though the symbol of sword and eye on her breastplate was vaguely familiar somehow. It wouldn’t matter either way. The lyrium had left her system ages ago, and she was no longer in danger of being detected. 

“Aren’t you?” She pulled something from her pocket. “You had this around your neck when we found you.”

Daena’s heart stopped as she reached instinctively for her neck, only to find it bare. Clutched in Cassandra’s hands was her phylactery, no longer bound within the black ribbon that had hidden its glow from the world. 

“That doesn’t belong to you,” Daena hissed through gritted teeth.

“It belongs to the Order,” she responded, and tucked it securely in her pocket again. “We need you to close the Breach, and time is running short.”

“It’s not like I’ve been given much choice in the matter,” she muttered in response.

“None of us has a choice.” 

Daena growled low in her chest and contemplated an attack. She didn’t have her daggers, but she still had her magic. A little zap might be enough to take the woman off guard so she could get away. Unfortunately, her body was still singing with the agony caused by the strange mark on her hand. She didn’t have the energy to summon the mana she needed. 

“I am a Seeker,” Cassandra said, her eyes narrowing as she unshackled Daena’s hands. “I can take you down just as easily as any templar.”

“Ah, a Seeker. Bloody wonderful,” she muttered and followed the woman to the Breach.

* * *

It had been years since Daena had faced demons outside of her dreams. It was jarring at first, but she quickly acclimated. A slew of weapons littered the ground, remnants of previous battles lost to the demons. She selected a pair of iron daggers to defend herself. The blades were not as finely crafted as hers, but they were adequate. 

“Drop your weapons!” the Seeker ordered as Daena sheathed them. She held out her sword, the point of it unwavering in Daena’s face. 

“Oh sure, and while I’m at it, I’ll just save the demons the trouble and throw my unarmed self into their clutches,” she answered sarcastically. “Would that work for you?”

The Seeker hesitated before withdrawing her sword. “I suppose you have a point. I obviously cannot protect you, and I can’t expect you to be defenseless.” She breathed a heavy sigh. “I need to keep you alive, at least until the Breach is closed.”

“How _kind_ of you,” Daena spat. The Seeker reached down to pick up a mage’s staff and shoved it in her hands. 

“Take this too. We need all the power we can muster.”

Daena looked at the staff, the tip of it cold and webbed with frost. The weight of it felt strange in her hands. She glanced up at the Seeker and back at the staff before she tossed it to the side, the metal clanging against the frozen ground.

The Seeker eyed her curiously, but stayed silent.

“Should we move on?” Daena suggested. The Seeker nodded and took the lead toward the Breach.

The tear in the sky continued to erupt periodically, and the constant pain was beginning to drive Daena mad. She lost focus in battle more than once, but the Seeker was fortunately there to balance her faults. 

“Still keeping me alive then?” Daena teased.

“Until the Breach is closed,” the Seeker responded with a stony face.

It wasn’t until Daena closed the first rift that she felt any form of relief. 

They had joined an elf and a dwarf fending off a cluster of demons. When the enemies had fallen, Daena had barely caught her breath before the elf gripped her arm and shoved her glowing hand at the rift. 

She could feel a pressure build inside of her and move to the palm of her hand. When the pressure released with a loud crack, the pain went with it, and the rift disappeared. 

“How did you know to do that?” she panted.

“Educated guess?” the elf with a mage’s staff answered. “The magic is unlike any I have seen,” he said, with a clear sense of wonder in his voice. “But it is magic, nonetheless. I had the chance to study it extensively while you were unconscious.”

“He means he kept the mark from killing you while you slept,” quipped the dwarf with the crossbow nearly half his size strapped to his back.

“You know everything there is to know of this mark?” Daena asked of the elf.

“No,” he said. “I theorized the mark was connected to the rifts, and it seems I was correct. You have the power to close them as well as open them.”

“I didn’t open the hole in the sky,” she insisted, partially to herself.

“That will be determined later,” the Seeker interjected. “Right now, we should focus on closing it.”

“This woman may be a mage, Cassandra, but I doubt any mage would have the sort of power required to cause such an explosion,” the elf kindly offered. 

“Noted,” snapped the Seeker.

“Did you have to tell everyone I’m a mage, Seeker?” Daena demanded, her eyes narrowing to slits. 

“Yes,” she answered bluntly. “You were considered a threat. It was pertinent that your nature be revealed to those involved.”

“And is _everyone_ in Haven _involved_?”

The Seeker hesitated for a moment before answering, “Yes.”

“ _Maker’s balls_ , woman,” Daena huffed. She turned to the elf and the dwarf. “Tell me, are you two captives of this Seeker as well?”

“Not at all,” the dwarf sang. “More like honored guests, wouldn’t you say, Seeker?” He took an exaggerated bow and winked at the Seeker. She snarled in response. “I am Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and Cassandra’s closest friend, if only because she doesn’t have any.” 

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” said the elf with a polite nod of his bald head. 

“And you’re a mage voluntarily working with the Seeker?” Daena eyed both Solas and the Seeker curiously. “Openly _working together_?”

“He’s an apostate,” spat the Seeker. 

“Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.” Solas' voice was surprisingly calm in the wake of the Seeker’s prickly demeanor. “I happened to be nearby when the explosion happened, and I came to offer whatever aid I can.”

“That was awfully brave and selfless of you,” Daena said incredulously.

“This Breach affects all of Thedas," the elf responded. "I would be remiss if I did not do everything I could to stop it before it dooms us all.”

“Enough chatter,” barked the Seeker. “Let’s get moving.”

“She’s an absolute _peach_ ,” Daena whispered sarcastically to the dwarf. Varric snickered and Daena found she couldn’t prevent the smirk that tugged at her lips.

* * *

The Breach had loomed large at a distance, but it was monstrous up close. Everything and everyone within a mile radius was painted in its sickly green light. 

The stench of burnt flesh filled Daena’s nostrils and she choked on a cough. Scattered across the grounds of what had been the Temple of Sacred Ashes were charred bodies, forever frozen in a state of agony. Flashes of old nightmares flickered across her mind, and her skin broke out in a cold sweat. The persistent uncertainty of her role in the catastrophic event was tearing at her insides. She could quite possibly be standing near where she had killed her people and her family years before. The irony was not lost on her. 

“Red lyrium?” Varric’s voice drew her from the dark corner of her mind. Nestled in the crumbling remains of the Temple was blood-red stone that glowed and pulsed similarly to the Breach. 

“I see it,” Cassandra said.

“What’s it doing here, Seeker?” The dwarf sounded panicked.

“What is it?” Daena asked as she reached to touch the surface of the glowing red stone. 

“Pure evil is what it is. Whatever you do, don’t touch it!” At his urgent tone, Daena jerked her curious hand away. 

_Now is the hour of our victory!_

A voice boomed and echoed through the ruins of the Temple. Everyone drew their weapons on instinct, but no enemy appeared.

“What was that?” The Seeker sounded almost frightened.

_Hold the sacrifice still._

A green-tinted mist appeared below the rift, producing forms masked in shadow. A different voice echoed through the Temple.

_Someone, help me!_

“That was Divine Justinia’s voice!” exclaimed the Seeker.

_What’s going on here?_

The sound of her own voice echoing around her sent a shiver through Daena’s spine. It became clear this was a vision of the past, of what had happened before the explosion.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra grabbed Daena roughly by the shoulder and turned her around. “What happened? Where is the Divine?!”

“I told you, I don’t remember.” She jerked herself from the Seeker’s grasp and turned back to the shadowy images, desperate to find familiarity. 

_We have an intruder. Kill her now!_

The threatening voice boomed again and shook the ground beneath their feet. 

“Visions of the past, cloaked in shadow. The Fade bleeds through this place,” Solas observed. “The Breach is closed for the moment, but not altogether sealed. You will need to open it again and seal it properly.”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?!” Daena exclaimed. “If I open the Breach, demons will come pouring out. It may even cause more rifts to form nearby.”

“It is the only option,” he stated with finality. “Center your focus on the mark on your hand and will it to do what you need it to do.”

“Simple as that, is it?” she scoffed. She growled and took a deep breath, releasing it a moment later in a drawn out sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Daena was sure she had suffered another nightmare. There was no mark on her hand, no agonizing pain, no shadowy figures talking ominously of sacrifices. She had not been captured, there was no Seeker, and the Conclave hadn’t even been destroyed. 

She believed it had all been a nightmare, until she hit the wall in her mind that housed the inaccessible memory of what had happened at the Conclave. When she remembered that she couldn’t remember, her eyes flew open.

All of it had been real, was _still_ real. 

It was the second time Daena had woken in an unfamiliar place, and she hoped it wouldn’t become routine. Fortunately, she was now unguarded and free of chains, albeit disarmed. The basic daggers she had found had been taken from her, just as her other, beautiful ones had. It would have been the perfect opportunity to slip away and disappear again if it hadn’t been for the young elven woman who wandered into the cabin Daena had found herself in. And they still had her phylactery. 

The elf, after a few moments of stuttering and pleading her pardon, explained that she was still in Haven. It’d been three days since Daena had stopped the Breach from growing any larger, and the mark on her hand was dim and no longer pulsing violently. As such, the pain was gone. At least for the moment. 

Before making a clumsy exit, the elf explained that the Seeker would be expecting Daena to meet her in the Chantry. Daena had every intention of following through her initial thought of slipping away unnoticed to find her way to a port where she could await the inevitable arrival of the _Siren’s Call_. After stealing back her phylactery, or course. However, dreams of being on the open sea again were dashed when she opened the door to the cabin.

At her emergence from the cabin, the people of Haven gathered and stared intently at her. Some dropped to their knees while others crossed their chests with closed fists. Every person was offering words of praise and thanks... _to her_?

_They’re pleased with me?_

She had been held prisoner, the prime suspect of mass murder. She had endured the hateful scorn in the people’s eyes when the Seeker had paraded her through the village in chains before leading her away to close the Breach. Now, the very same people seemed to be commending her. The Breach wasn’t even closed, just sedated. Without her memory, she still couldn’t prove she wasn’t guilty of the original crime in the first place. 

As she stepped tentatively forward, the crowd parted and gave her a wide berth through which to walk. The sight was unnerving. So much so, that she hadn't noticed how her feet had taken her to the entrance of the Chantry until she bumped into it.

“Maker, damn this place,” she muttered and pushed through the doors of the Chantry.


	14. Inquisition Reborn

The people of Haven may have had a change of heart about Daena, but the Chantry had not. 

Daena followed the shouts of disputing voices to a room at the far end of the candlelit atrium of the Chantry. The Lord Chancellor demanded her immediate detainment upon her entrance to what appeared to be some sort of strategy room. 

“Disregard that, and leave us,” the Seeker ordered of the few soldiers that guarded the room. 

“She will be tried and hanged for what she’s done, Seeker,” puffed the Chancellor, his face red, with spittle at the corner of his down-turned lips. “Mark my words!”

“It wouldn’t be much of a trial if you’ve already condemned me to death, would it?” Daena cursed herself for not at least _trying_ to find a way to escape these people.

“It won’t be much of a trial because you killed hundreds of people, including the Divine!” he shouted back at her. 

“No, she didn’t,” the Seeker stated firmly. That was the last thing Daena expected to hear from Cassandra’s lips. “The Divine called out to her for help. I heard it myself. She did not cause the explosion.”

“Voices and shadows in the mist? It’s hardly evidence to her innocence,” he spat. “She could have been manipulating the Fade with her strange magic without you even knowing it, producing a lie to cover up what she really did!”

“That is preposterous. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour. She tried to help the Divine, and without her, the Breach would still be tearing apart the sky. The mark was a gift.” The Seeker’s voice was full of what appeared to be admiration. For her or the Maker’s providence, Daena couldn’t be certain.

“I bloody well hope not,” Daena scoffed. “Any Maker who would give this curse as a gift would be a cruel fiend indeed.”

“You see? Even the prisoner doesn’t believe in your theory of divine intervention, Seeker.” The Chancellor had the most irritatingly smug grin.

“That doesn’t mean I ripped the sky open,” Daena argued, and silently hoped that she was right. 

“Enough!” the Seeker shouted. She strode to the back wall of the room, retrieved an impossibly thick book, and slammed it down on the table with a heavy thud. “Do you know what this is, Lord Chancellor?”

He stared at the etching of a golden sun and an all-seeing eye on the book’s cover, but said nothing. 

“It is a writ from the Divine granting us the authority to act. In this time of chaos and destruction, it is our duty to bring about peace in any way we can.”

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave,” Leliana spoke finally. “Someone the Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others, or perhaps they have allies that yet live.” Leliana’s eyes narrowed and cut through the Chancellor like a fine blade.

“You can’t possibly think that _I_ had anything to do with—”

“Yes _you_ , and many others,” the Orlesian woman growled dangerously.

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn,” the Seeker interjected. She stepped around the large table and approached the Chancellor with a bold stride that caused him to take a few steps back. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, just as the Divine intended. We have her approval with this writ. We don’t need yours.”

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the Chancellor hissed. He shot a dark glare in Daena’s direction and stormed out of the room. The Seeker released a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Pleasant fellow, isn’t he?” Daena quipped. “Friend of yours?”

“Hardly,” the Seeker growled. “He is ignorant, as is the Chantry. They waste time pointing fingers and arguing over who will be the next Divine instead of focusing on the real threat.”

“Right. So, what is this Inquisition business?” Daena asked.

“It is the Divine’s Directive,” Leliana answered. “To find and eliminate those who spread the chaos. To find those who would stand against it and help restore order to Thedas.” She sighed, and continued in a less confident tone. “We have no leader, Cassandra. We have no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“This is our only option, Leliana.” The Seeker looked to Daena with pleading eyes. “The Breach is still a threat. Whether you believe that mark on your hand was a gift or a curse, it remains our only hope of closing it.”

“Am I still your prisoner?” Daena asked.

“Did you wake in a cell?” she countered. “I admit, I was wrong. You are not responsible for the explosion. I believe I’ve made that clear.” She held out her hand as a truce. “Will you work with us to fix this mess? Please, before it’s too late.”

Daena considered her for a moment, clenching her hands on her hips. Her eyes scanned the heavy writ still resting on the large table that she only just noticed had the map of Thedas etched into its surface. She then met the hopeful eyes of both women before settling on the symbolic eye that decorated the Seeker’s breastplate. 

“Fine, since you asked nicely, I will help you,” she said without offering her hand to the Seeker. “But first, I’ll need something from you.”

“What is it?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“You have my phylactery. It wasn’t yours to take, and I’d like it back. Now.” The firm edge in her voice overlaid the polite tone she attempted to retain with her demand. The Seeker huffed and withdrew her offered hand.

“I told you, it belongs to the Order. You may no longer be our prisoner, but you are still an apostate.”

“Cassandra, she is neither prisoner nor apostate,” Leliana debated. “She may be the only person who can save us, and she knows it. She isn’t going anywhere.”

The Seeker looked as if she would argue further, but sighed her consent instead. “Yes, you’re right. But, I no longer have it. I handed it over to the Order. Well, the closest we have to it. The Commander of our armed forces, what little is left of it, used to be a templar. If you want your phylactery, you will have to speak with him.”

“Well, it seems I’m certainly not going anywhere now.” Daena sighed and surrendered to her fate. Whether or not the destruction of the Conclave had been her fault, she knew it was her responsibility to rectify the wrong. She was apparently the only one who could. “As much as I wish I wasn’t at the center of all of this, I know how important this mark is.” She offered her hand to the Seeker. “You have my full cooperation. Whatever I need to do to close the Breach, I’ll do it.”

Cassandra shook her hand, the look of hope renewed on her face.

“Now, where can I find this templar?” 

* * *

In all her years living with smugglers and pirates, Daena had never picked up the skill of pickpocketing, and now she regretted it. She was certain the templar would never give up her phylactery, regardless of the bizarre and sudden devotion she was receiving from the people of Haven. She considered trying to seduce the templar into letting his guard down long enough for her to try and take it, and then had to stifle a chuckle at the absurdity of the idea. She wasn’t Isabela. 

Daena weaved her way through the village, clinging to the shadows and dodging clusters of her new supporters whispering something about a herald. She pushed through the gates guarding Haven. The training camp was hard to miss. Dozens of men and women sparred with one another, grunting and clashing their wooden swords and shields together. Many were clumsy in their movements, and she realized most of them were regular town folk, not soldiers. These people had never planned to fight a day in their life, but now they had no choice. She felt a pang of pity for them, and then remembered she was in a position she had never planned for either.

At the center of the training ground stood a man with his back to her. The sight of fair hair filled her with a sudden disappointment. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized how much she had hoped the templar Cassandra had spoken of would be Wesley. 

She pushed away the hope that had swelled and crumbled in a matter of seconds and walked toward the Commander. He wore an absurdly ornate cloak. The fabric, a deep crimson, cascaded down his back from a bushel of multicolored furs that lined his shoulders and nearly swallowed his head. It was the most garish item of clothing she had ever seen.

Her lips parted, a jest sharp on her tongue. Before she could deliver, however, the Commander turned to shout direction at a stumbling recruit. Daena’s eyes widened at the sight of the man’s face, and she sucked in a strangled gasp.

His golden hair was just as she remembered, now that she could see it un-obscured by the ridiculous furry mantle, but his honey-colored eyes were twice as bright. She noted an aged scar that branched from his upper lip, and determined that it had clearly been allowed to heal without the aid of magic. The fine scruff that had grown along his jaw and around his mouth seemed out of place, since he had always made it a point to remain clean-shaven. His familiar silverite armor was unbranded, the flaming sword and sunbursts skirts gone. It had been replaced with a well crafted suit of everite and bear hide armor, albeit hidden beneath the monstrosity that was his cloak. He looked different, older, but he was undeniably _Cullen_.

Daena glanced down at herself and wondered how much she had changed over the years. She was fairly certain her skin was a shade or two darker, thanks to the unrelenting sun that had overseen her adventures at sea. Fortunately, her skin and lips remained soft, unchapped by blistering heat. As it turned out, it was not Isabela’s Rivaini skin that kept her remarkably pristine. It was the regular application of amrita oil.

Reaching a hand up to her face, Daena traced a groove of skin that curved around her right eyebrow, from her temple to her cheekbone. She smiled as the scene of a vigorous bar fight flashed across her memory, and she could almost feel the heavy blow that had split open her skin where her fingers now grazed the long-healed scar. Her hand traveled down to her collarbone and traced another small scar, one she had obtained from a duel in Antiva. She had many other tiny nicks on her arms and legs, the physical representation of the life she had led, and loved, for years. Isabela had been right: the life of a smuggler was not a safe one.

The poor recruit Cullen was currently reprimanding noticed Daena first and dropped to his knees.

“Lady Herald,” the man exclaimed, desperate to be free of the attentions of the Commander. It was not a name with which she was familiar, but the gesture of fist-over-heart indicated that he was referring to her. _Stand up, you fool!_ she wanted to shout, but she couldn’t find her voice. 

Instead, she found Cullen gazing at her, his eyes no longer sharp with the discipline he had tried to bestow upon his recruit. A brief moment of relief filled her, having someone familiar emerge amidst the barrage of strangers, but her lips quickly down-turned into a grimace as she remembered their last encounter. 

Cullen had sentenced her to death. Granted, it was to her preference over Tranquility, but when her execution came to an abrupt halt and the Circle fell into chaos, he had ordered her to be locked up again, undoubtedly to be annulled like all the others. If not for Wesley’s help, she would have died in Kirkwall. She couldn’t be certain, but she was willing to put gold on Cullen being the reason the templars had been in pursuit of her in Amaranthine. How many other mages managed to escape the Circles with their phylacteries in hand? She knew the answer was none.

“Dismissed,” Cullen muttered to the recruit, and then louder to the rest, “All of you, dismissed! Return with your swords _properly_ in hand in one hour.” The recruit stumbled to his feet and shuffled away, along with the other men and women. 

“Daena,” he breathed with a soft upturn of his lips. The sound of her name freed her from the shock-induced paralysis. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded harshly. 

“It’s good to see you too, Daena,” he answered, slightly jostled by her aggressive tone. “Are you well?”

“Am I _well_? What sort of question is that?” She glared at him with wide eyes.

“It’s been years,” he said, a slight edge creeping into his voice. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Yes, well I’d _hoped_ never to see you again. You haven’t forgotten I’m a mage, have you? I’ve been hiding from the likes of you and yours for years, leading a perfectly good life, I might add.”

“I’m not a templar any longer,” he sighed, as if he’d said it a thousand times. 

“So I’ve heard,” she growled. “But flaming sword or no, you are a templar at heart. That will never change.”

“Right,” he said flatly. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if battling a headache. “I’ll be in the command tent if you have need of me.” He strode away toward a large black tent that stood apart from the other smaller tan ones that lined the training camp. 

The sudden anger that had boiled over in her receded to an even simmer. After her escape from the Circle, Daena had been too preoccupied with trying to survive. She hadn’t realized how the resentment toward Cullen had built inside her. The outburst had taken her by surprise as much as it had him. However, she wasn’t ready to forgive him, nor would she apologize.

“Maker be damned if I can’t find a drink in the next five minutes,” she grumbled, and stomped her way back through the main gates, momentarily forgetting the original reason for visiting the Commander.

* * *

Daena spent the rest of her evening taking what little pleasure could be had of the swill the village tavern could provide. The tavern was too small to hide in a corner, so she did her best to ignore the eager and curious stares she got from every eye in the room. 

She downed her fifth stein and shouted for another when the dwarf sat down in front of her.

“Easy there, Glow Worm,” Varric chuckled. “You’ll run our tiny well dry before the next shipment comes in.” Daena scrunched her face at him, considered what he’d called her, and then shrugged.

“Better than ‘Lady Herald’, whatever that means,” she muttered. “I wouldn’t worry too much. They’ll just water this piss down more than they already have and be set for a few more days.” She stared into the depths of the sixth stein and shuddered with disgust as she took a large gulp.

Varric laughed and retrieved a flask from inside his coat. “Used to stronger stuff, aren’t you?” He pushed the flask across the table to her.

“You could say that.” She looked at the flask and then quirked an eyebrow at him to request permission. He nodded. She uncorked the top and let the liquid gold flow down her throat, the familiar warmth spreading across her chest. “Thank you,” she sighed. “I needed that.”

“It looked like it.” She pushed the flask back to him, but he shook his head. “Keep it. You’re gonna need more of it, I’m sure. Consider it a gift,” he offered, grinning.

“Oh no, don’t start that. I have enough people around here bowing and singing praises to me. I don’t need you giving me presents too.” She pushed it further toward him. “But thank you for the gesture, Varric.”

“Anytime,” he said, and slipped the flask back into his coat. “So tell me. What are you trying to drown in this water-beer?”

“Where do I start? I awoke three days ago in chains with this thing on my hand, and I have no idea where it came from. I was practically thrown at the Breach to make it go away, and now everyone thinks I’m some sort of hero. The bloody thing is still in the sky! I don’t know what to do about it, but Cassandra and Leliana have placed all of their hopes on me. I’d be tempted to chop my own hand off if it didn’t mean I couldn’t fight anymore. _Maker’s balls_ , I didn’t ask for any of this,” she groaned.

“No one ever does,” he said with a sigh. “I have been wondering about that. The daggers I mean. Why do you use them and not a staff?”

“Blades are safer than a staff,” she answered plainly. “I’ve been out of the Circle awhile. As you can imagine, I couldn’t exactly lug around a staff with templars on the prowl. And in my line of work, sometimes adept combat skills were required.” She took another swig of her stein, the swill tasting more like water now that she’d had a taste of something worth her time. 

“Your line of work? What did you do before you came to the Conclave?”

“Tell me about your crossbow,” she said, evading his question.

“Bianca? Ah, she and I have been through a lot together.” He glanced over his shoulder lovingly. “A beaut, isn’t she?”

“You named your crossbow Bianca?” she chuckled. “Is she named for a lady then?” She winked.

“I’m afraid that is one story I will never tell,” he responded with a sly smile. 

“Come on, you have to tell me something. I answered a question about myself, now it’s your turn. Where are you from?”

“Alright. I hail from the infamous Kirkwall. I spent most of my life there, until the rebellion started, and the Seeker dragged me off.”

“Kirkwall?” she asked, intrigued. “Why did Cassandra drag you here?”

“You haven’t read my book?” She shook her head. “Certainly you’ve heard of the Champion of Kirkwall, right?”

“I’ve heard tales.”

“Well, I was one of the Champion’s closest friends. I was with her at the spark of the rebellion. I was at her side when she took down Knight-Commander Meredith, who’d been driven mad by red lyrium.”

“The same stuff we saw at the Temple?” 

He nodded. “I told you it was nasty stuff. It drove the woman completely insane. She wanted to kill everyone, even the templars in the end. Granted, the explosion at the Chantry probably pushed her clean over the edge, but she was already headed there I think.”

“What happened?” Daena was completely enthralled. She’d heard vague tales of what had happened in Kirkwall after she’d fled, but word-of-mouth tended to skew the details. 

“If you read my book, you can get all the pretty details,” he grinned. “But in short, the templars eventually stepped in to oppose her. The Commander was actually the first to stand up to her.”

“The Commander?”

“Commander Curly—I mean _Cullen_. Have you met him? He was the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall at the time. Meredith had us beaten down, and we were surrounded by templars. She ordered them to kill us, but Curly refused and stood with the Champion. In the end, Meredith destroyed herself. Or rather the lyrium did, I guess.”

Daena took several moments to process what Varric had said. She found it hard to believe that Cullen would stand up to Meredith, the Knight-Commander he had revered so much. It was something the old Cullen might have done, the Cullen before the fall of Kinloch Hold, the Cullen she had lost more than a lifetime ago. 

“How did Cullen end up here? Being the Knight-Captain, he would have been promoted to Knight-Commander at that point, but Cassandra said he left the Order.”

“I’m not familiar with that part, unfortunately. After Cullen released us, we went into hiding for awhile but eventually split up and went our separate ways. Cassandra picked me up and interrogated me for days trying to locate the Champion. When the Seeker decided to drag me to Ferelden, Curly was already with her.”

“How long ago was that?”

“She brought me here a couple of months ago, but I’m not sure how long Curly has been around. Why?”

“No reason,” she answered absently. It was entirely possible, and would solidify her previous suspicions the templars’ pursuit of her, that Cullen had been Knight-Commander for a short time before leaving the Order. What would he have done in his new position? Had he tried to restore order? Obviously not, given the state of the dismantled Circles. And what would have made him abandon his duty to the Order?

Daena’s head pounded with the barrage of unanswerable questions. She rubbed at her weary face with her marked hand and stared into the dim green glow. Too much had happened in the past few days, and exhaustion was taking hold of her.

“You ok, Glow Worm?” Varric asked concerned.

“Fine, Varric,” she said evenly. “I’m going to bed, I think. Thanks for the drink.” She stood and left her new friend behind in the tavern. When she stepped outside, she couldn’t help but notice how the Breach, though calm, still gave off a faint green light that tinted the darkness. She looked to her hand again and clenched her fingers over the mark, trying to eradicate the light. Instead, it permeated through the cracks between her fingers. 

_Why me?_ she thought. _Why did I have to go to that blasted Conclave?_

She entertained the notion of disappearing once she got her hands on her phylactery. But she knew she couldn’t leave, not with the hole in the sky that only she had the power to close. She couldn’t bring herself to be so selfish. 

Instead, she returned to the cabin that had been assigned to her. A single candle remained lit on the table next to her bed, and she stumbled in the dim light. Her bleary eyes caught the shape of a box sitting on the bed. She sank down next to it and traced her fingers along the edge of the varnished wood before opening it.

In the box rested her beautiful obsidian and serpentstone daggers, glinting in the faint candlelight. She touched them fondly, the metal cold and smooth. Beneath the blades rested a glowing vial. Her phylactery. She plucked it from the box and felt the warmth pulse in her hands.

A twinge of guilt pulled at her heart, but she tried to ignore it. Cullen may have returned her things, even her phylactery, but she still didn’t feel she could trust him. He may no longer wear the silver or skirts, but he’d been a templar for most of his life. It would be foolish to believe that he had left behind such a large part of himself. 

Daena sighed, secured her items safely in the wooden box, and set it next to the flickering candle. Kicking off her boots, she crawled beneath the thick fur blanket that had been provided and tried to purge everything from her mind so she could sleep.

But _Maker be damned_ , it wasn’t working.


	15. Andraste's Chosen

Sleep had eluded her most of the night, so when the pounding started on her door, Daena hurled her discarded boot in the general direction of the sound. She forcefully grumbled for the interloper to _piss off_. 

The pounding didn’t stop but grew more insistent before the door flew open. 

“For Maker’s sake,” came the voice of the Seeker. “We are well past the eighth bell. It’s time to get up.” She tore away the warmth of the fur blanket from Daena’s frame, causing her to shiver. “We have business to attend. You are expected in the War Room immediately.”

“Fine,” Daena groaned, and rolled to a sitting position. “I’ll meet you there.” She had every intention of retrieving the warmth of her blanket as soon as Cassandra left. 

But Cassandra didn’t leave.

“Here,” Cassandra said, tossing Daena a set of clothes she had pulled from a trunk in the corner. “You must make yourself presentable to the people.” 

“And this is presentable?” Daena asked, holding up the bundle of beige cloth. It was soft and nearly as thin as a set of sleep clothes. 

“More than your current state of dress, at least,” she responded, eyeing her from head to toe. Daena looked down at herself. She still wore the leathers she had worn to the Conclave, the very same she had donned as a smuggler. The clothes were somewhat worn and tattered, but they had character and were undeniably comfortable. And they were dirty. Very, _very_ dirty.

“I see your point,” Daena conceded, smirking. 

“You have five minutes,” barked the Seeker before she stepped out of the cabin and closed the door. 

_You have five minutes_ , mocked Daena silently as she peeled herself out of her leathers and into the soft beige clothes. She pulled on her boots and eyed the wooden box that still rested on her side table. After securing her daggers in their familiar places at her hips, she retrieved the glowing vial. Cutting a strip of leather from her old clothes with her blade, she wrapped it around the vial and used a string of lacing from her breeches to tie it around her neck, securing it beneath her tunic. On her person was the safest place she could think to keep it.

“Satisfied?” she asked Cassandra when she emerged. The Seeker eyed her for a moment.

“Your hair could use some work,” she answered and set a steady stride for the Chantry. Daena rolled her eyes and combed her fingers through her shoulder-length auburn curls to tame the unruly knots.

“You only gave me five minutes,” Daena grumbled. 

“Yes, and you took _ten_ ,” huffed Cassandra, obviously annoyed.

When Daena entered the strategy room, now known to her as the War Room, she spotted three other figures: the ever-shadowed Leliana, another woman she did not recognize, and Cullen. Daena scowled at his presence, but the heat of her anger had cooled. His face remained impassive. 

“This is our ambassador, Josephine Montilyet,” Cassandra introduced, gesturing to the woman she didn’t know. 

“It’s good to meet you,” the ambassador offered politely in a smooth accent. She clutched a board and quill as she curtsied slightly. 

“Antivan?” Daena identified. “Antiva is lovely this time of year, isn’t it?” Josephine lit up and grinned from ear to ear. Cullen’s brow quirked as if to ask how she’d ever seen Antiva at any time of year, but he remained silent. 

“Oh yes!” the ambassador agreed. She opened her mouth to say more, but the Seeker moved on.

“Of course, you know Leliana. Also known as Sister Nightingale, she was the Left Hand of the Divine. She is now our spymaster.” Leliana bowed her head respectfully.

“Sister Nightingale?” Daena asked with raised eyebrows.

“You’ve heard of me?” Leliana perked and grinned.

“Uh, yes. I...I’ve heard the name.”

“And I take it you’ve met Commander Cullen?” Cassandra continued.

“We are acquainted,” Cullen answered neutrally. He clearly hadn’t revealed their prior acquaintance. Though surprised, Daena was mildly grateful for his discretion. 

“Good, then let’s get started.”

Her new advisors prattled on for an eternity before the mention of the _Herald of Andraste_ caught her attention. 

_She_ was apparently the Herald of Andraste. 

“After your attempt to close the Breach, a rumor spread that a woman was seen at your side when you fell out of the Fade,” stated Leliana. “They chose to believe that woman was Andraste herself. They believe she sent you to save us.”

“ _The Herald of Andraste_. Quite the title isn’t it? How do you feel about that?” Cullen asked pointedly, his golden eyes narrowed at Daena.

She didn’t know what to say. In fact, her immediate reaction was to laugh hysterically. So she did. _Herald of Andraste?_ The claim was absurd. Had she not once almost been a sacrifice to the supposed Andraste, on this very spot of land? Was this some sort of cruel joke? But it couldn’t be. No one knew about that, except Wesley.

Her advisors eyed her curiously, unsure how to process her reaction.

“You’re serious?” Daena gasped as her laughter sputtered abruptly to a stop. “Do you honestly believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what we believe,” Cassandra answered, straightening. “The people see you as Andraste’s chosen. You are a symbol of hope.”

 _Why me?!_ Daena wanted to scream. The idea of being _Andraste’s chosen_ did not sit well with her, given her past. She suddenly felt cornered, like she had when she was a child. Her heart raced as her vision tunneled, and she gripped the edge of the table to counter the dizziness that threatened to make her fall. 

She could also feel a familiar buzz humming inside her, and she fought to smother it.

“Herald?” It was Cullen, and she could hear the alarm in his voice. She knew he could feel the storm stirring inside her.

“Daena,” she muttered breathlessly as she tried to focus. “My name is Daena, damn you.” Daena squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth against a wave of nausea.

“Herald, are you alright?” Cassandra placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, ignoring Daena’s remark about her name. The contact helped Daena to regain herself. The dizziness passed, her vision cleared, and her heart calmed to a fairly normal beat. All that was left was a twisted knot in her stomach.

“Fine, Seeker,” she answered, still slightly shaky. “I didn’t get much rest, and I haven’t eaten.” Cullen’s eyes still studied her intensely and she deliberately avoided his gaze. “Are we finished here?”

“One last thing,” Leliana said. “There is a Chantry cleric in the Hinterlands by the name of Mother Giselle who has asked to speak with you. She thinks she can help.”

“Oh, bloody wonderful,” Daena responded, her tone weakly sarcastic. “The Chantry wants to see me hanged for heresy, but maybe if I talk to them nicely—”

“I agree,” Cullen interjected. “We can’t trust the Chantry, not when they’ve condemned the Inquisition and the Herald.” Daena grimaced at the sound of the formal title that appeared to be sticking. “They may not have a Divine to guide them, but they are still an influential force.” Cullen was the last person Daena had expected to agree with her.

“Mother Giselle does not feel as the others do, and she’s not the only one,” Leliana argued. “She could provide names of others who would support us.”

“This could be risky, but I will go with her,” offered Cassandra. “We’ll leave tomorrow.” She turned to Daena and narrowed her eyes as she said, “At first light.”

“If you wake me at dawn tomorrow, be sure to have a drink in your hand,” Daena quipped. “And I don’t mean that swill they serve at the tavern.” Her advisors gaped at her. “What? You don’t expect me to start the day without breaking fast do you?”

Leliana’s lips twitched while the other advisors shook their heads and began filing out of the room. Daena caught the arm of her spymaster.

“Can I speak with you a moment, Leliana?” she asked. When the others paused, she added, “Alone.”

“Of course, Herald.” The others left the room and closed the door behind them. “What can I do for you?”

“You worked directly for the Divine, yes?” Leliana nodded. “A few years ago, before the rebellion, you were in Kirkwall, were you not? _Sister Nightingale_ was heading an investigation for the Divine.”

“Yes,” she answered hesitantly, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “But it was low profile. Very few knew about it. How is it that you came to hear about that?”

“Do you remember a man, a templar? He appealed to the Divine in regards to the conditions of the Kirkwall Circle and it’s Knight-Commander. The Divine sent you to investigate.”

Leliana nodded slowly. “I do. I believe his name was Wesley. A Knight-Lieutenant, I think? He was my contact for that particular assignment.” Daena’s breath caught in her chest. 

“Do you know where he is?” she blurted. “I mean, do you know if he attended the Conclave?”

“I’m afraid I do not.” Leliana’s knowing eyes crinkled. “I had no need to stay in touch with him once I left Kirkwall.” Daena looked away and focused on the rigid map carved into the War Table. “You were a mage in the Kirkwall Circle, weren’t you?” 

Daena nodded without removing her eyes from the table. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for him,” she said softly. 

“You know the Commander as well, then?” Daena turned to face her with a roll of her eyes.

“Yes, unfortunately,” she grumbled bitterly. Leliana struggled to hide a smirk.

“The Commander isn’t so bad, is he?”

“I’ve known him longer than you’d think. He changed over the years,” she said, her voice distant. “When people change, they don’t always change for the better.”

“I suppose that’s true, but sometimes people continue to change. Some people are worthy of a second chance.” 

“Would you be able to locate Wesley?” she asked, turning the subject away from Cullen.

“The templars have been difficult to track lately.” Daena’s shoulders slumped as her eyes slanted to the floor. “But I will do what I can,” Leliana added, and squeezed her shoulder lightly.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling softly. “Keep this between us, if you can. Please.”

“Discretion is my specialty, dear Herald.” Leliana winked. “Good luck in the Hinterlands,” she called as she left the War Room, leaving Daena alone but thrumming with the first surge of true hope she’d had since before the Conclave.

* * *

As she expected, Daena found Cullen waiting outside of the Chantry with sharp eyes and folded arms. 

“Something you need, Commander?” she groaned

“Care to explain what happened in there?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” she sighed and tried to walk past him. He stepped in front of her to block her path. 

“I’m worried that…” He paused and rubbed his temples. “Being this close to the Breach is a risk for everyone, but the risk is much higher for a mage.”

“Forgive me,” she mocked. “I forget that I’m just an empty vessel waiting to be exploited by demons.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s imperative that you remain in control of your magic. After what I felt in you in the War Room, I am skeptical of any mage being able to withstand the dangers of the weakened Veil in this area.” 

“What you felt had nothing to do with the Breach.”

“Oh?” Cullen raised a skeptical brow.

“I told you, I’m fucking starving and I hardly slept.” Cullen flinched at her forceful language. “Am I to be punished for being malnourished and sleep deprived?”

“The energy I felt could not possibly be from—”

“I’ve been free of the Circle for years, Commander. I have yet to lose control,” she lied. “Do you think I would have made it this far if I had?” She stared him down as defiantly as she could and hoped he wouldn’t see through to her self doubt.

“All I’m saying,” he sighed, “is that precautionary measures may need to be taken to keep the people, and you, safe.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a templar anymore.”

“That is correct.” 

“Then stop acting like one,” she spat and side-stepped past him.

“Would I have returned your phylactery if I still followed the Order?” he challenged. She paused for a moment with her back to him before she huffed and continued on her path toward the tavern.

As she approached the tavern, however, Daena’s stomach churned at the thought of consuming more of the water-beer. Instead, she steered away and through the gates. With their Commander temporarily absent from the training field, the recruits had taken advantage of the chance to relax. Some were stealing naps hidden beneath their helmets, while others sat in groups playing Wicked Grace. 

Even in her agitated state, it was comforting to see the smiles and hear the laughter of the people. There was no clash of sword and shield, no shouts of command, and no screams of horror or agony. She was just a woman, not a holy figure to be worshipped or followed, and these were just people leading a quiet life. For one brief moment, the world felt normal again, despite the eerie green glow that permeated the sky. 

The illusion was broken when some of the recruits noticed her watching. They abruptly halted their game and bowed their heads respectfully. 

“Lady Herald!” the men and women exclaimed nervously in unison. She waved her hand in dismissal. 

“As you were,” she ordered, and then her lips cracked into a smile. “And deal me in.” The recruits gave her puzzled looks, but made room for her when she settled into their circle. It wasn’t until the first hand was dealt that they hesitantly relaxed. 

On the third hand, the recruits suddenly dropped the game and scrambled to hide the cards in their pockets and down their shirts. Daena turned her head and peered over her shoulder. As she had guessed, Cullen was standing at the gates looking as stern as ever. She turned back to the apprehensive faces of her fellow card-players and clapped one of them on the shoulder.

“Another time, then,” she said with a beaming smile and stood to brush the dirt off of her cloth breeches. Smirking unapologetically, Daena strolled passed Cullen without meeting his eyes and disappeared beyond the gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so delayed. I am quickly running out of my stash of completed chapters, and work has been a bitch. Updates will likely continue to come every couple of weeks or so, but it _will_ continue. Thank you all for sticking with me! I hope that it's been worth your time.


	16. Statute of Civility

To Daena’s immense displeasure, Cassandra arrived before dawn the next morning. The Seeker failed to bring a proper _breakfast_ , but she did come bearing a gift. 

“New leathers,” she stated as she handed them to Daena. The black leather, a rather impressive bear hide, was soft and pliable in her hands. An Inquisition eye was stitched at the shoulders of both sleeves of the matching lambswool tunic. “Master Harritt is a fine smithy.”

“These look just my size. How did you guess? Have an eye for me, do you Seeker?” Daena teased. She winked and gave Cassandra a sultry smile. The Seeker’s eyes widened as her cheeks flushed pink.

“I do not!” she gasped. “I...I took your old clothes,” she stuttered.

“Oh? How creepily romantic,” Daena crooned. 

“And gave them to the smithy for the measurements,” she finished sternly, her flush fading and her eyes sharpening. Daena simply laughed. 

* * *

The one-week trek to the Hinterlands passed quicker than she expected. Varric made for fine company with his flamboyant and exaggerated stories, which she knew from her time in the tavern. However it surprised Daena that Solas had such interesting tales to tell of his walks in the Fade. 

“I’ve never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade before,” Daena admired. “It sounds fascinating, if not absolutely terrifying. Isn’t it dangerous?”

“If you’re careful, creatures in the Fade are no more dangerous than the proverbial big bad wolf in the woods,” he answered confidently. The shadow of a smirk touched his lips. 

Cassandra kept mostly to herself, sharpening her sword or oiling her leathers. On more than one occasion, Daena spied Cassandra sitting at the edge of camp with her nose in a book. 

“What are you reading?” Daena asked from afar. The Seeker simply grumbled in response. “You’d have more light to read by the fire.” Cassandra stood and tucked the book under her arm. Instead of sitting by the fire, however, she retreated to her tent.

“If I was a betting man—and I am—I’d wager she is reading something dirty,” Varric mused.

“I’ll take that bet,” Solas said.

“Bullshit,” Daena scoffed. “If she isn’t reading some tedious volume of canticles, then I’m the bloody Queen of Ferelden.”

“Care to monetize that claim, your majesty?” Varric chuckled and pulled out a ledger from his jacket. 

“Shut up, and put me down for five silver.”

* * *

The Inquisition’s arrival to the Hinterlands was met with heavy resistance from both mages and templars. The war-torn lands echoed with the cries and clash of battle and smelled of smoke, sulfur, and magic. 

Daena and her companions spent nearly two weeks traversing the Hinterlands: closing rifts, eliminating the hostile forces, and aiding the refugees who were caught in the middle of the mage and templar fighting. They were exhausted and eager to get on the road back to Haven, however Daena had yet to speak with Mother Giselle. Daena found her tending the injured at the Crossroads. 

After a rather unproductive chat with the Mother, Daena had been offered a solution: appeal to the Chantry in Val Royeaux. _Go to them_ , Mother Giselle had said, as if it would be that easy. _Make them doubt_. Daena herself doubted such a flimsy plan would work. Her advisors would have to weigh the risk and reward, but she knew she would ultimately have to follow through. Their current options were desperately limited.

The return trek to Haven felt twice as long as the trek out. As wary as she still was of Haven, however, she could not deny the sense of relief she felt when the steeple of Haven’s Chantry finally peaked above the trees. Daena parted ways with her companions at the gate after a hearty nip off of, Varric’s flask. She then retreated to her cabin and slept through to the next morning. 

As a result of being on the Seeker’s schedule for weeks, Daena woke before dawn. After she dressed, she headed to the Chantry for a meeting with her advisors. As Daena expected, she spotted Cassandra making her way toward the Chantry doors as well. She fell into step beside her. After a polite nod, a comfortable silence settled between them.

“Does it trouble you?” the Seeker asked when they stopped short of the War Room. 

“Hmm?” Daena hadn’t realized how hard she had been staring at the green in her hand until she looked up and blinked away the red tint that painted the room around her.

“The mark,” Cassandra clarified. Daena’s face remained pensive as she considered her answer. 

“The pain has become more tolerable with each rift we close, or perhaps I’m becoming used to it. And closing the rifts has helped a lot of people.” She sighed. “I only wish I understood exactly what it was and where it came from.”

“It’s possible we may never know the answer to that. What we do know is that it’s the only chance we have at closing the Breach.”

“We tried. It didn’t work.”

“True, but what if the mark had more power?” Cassandra offered. Daena tilted her head inquisitively.

“You have a plan, I take it?” 

“Perhaps.” The slightest hint of a smirk disappeared from the Seeker’s face as quickly as it had appeared. “Come, the others should be here soon.”

Daena and Cassandra waited in the War Room another ten minutes before her advisors arrived. While Leliana and Josephine looked sleepy, yet well rested, Cullen looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. His face was gaunt and pale, and his dim eyes had sunken into prominent dark circles. She felt an overwhelming urge to ask if he was alright. Fortunately, Cassandra beat her to it. 

“Commander, are you ill?” 

He waved her concern away with a lazy flick of his wrist. “There has been much to do, and I’ve found little time to sleep. I suffer a touch of exhaustion, nothing more.”

 _Insomnia_ , Daena concluded. She was familiar with the infliction. During her bout of overactive nightmares, she had come to fear sleep. She remembered the severe exhaustion, but never had she looked so drained of life.

“Are you sure there isn’t something else that ails you?” Cassandra pressed, echoing Daena’s thoughts. “Perhaps you should take the day to rest. I’m sure your Captain can handle anything—”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine.” Cullen had attempted to remain polite, but it was hard to miss the edge of irritation in his voice. “Shall we proceed?”

Daena and Cassandra delivered their report of their time in the Hinterlands with as little detail as possible. Aside from the discussion with Mother Giselle and the prospect of obtaining a new horsemaster, there was little of importance to report. Josephine scratched away with her quill and parchment while Leliana made quick notes of where she would send her scouts to next.

Cullen, on the other hand, was visibly distressed. A sheen of sweat had appeared across his forehead, and he frequently rubbed circles into his temple with trembling fingers. Daena glanced discreetly at the Commander as often as she could, concerned that he may vomit or simply keel over. 

“I believe the Herald’s mark can close the Breach, given it has enough power,” Cassandra explained, pulling Daena’s attention back to the meeting. 

“How do you propose we obtain such power?” Leliana asked. 

“Combined with the mark, I theorize that mages have the capability to amplify the strange magic.”

“You can’t be serious!” Cullen snapped. His sudden ferocity startled the women. 

“With enough magic poured into the mark, we could seal the Breach for good,” the Seeker stated confidently. 

“It’s more likely we’ll all be destroyed,” Cullen huffed. “The templars could use their power to suppress the Breach, weaken it so that—”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana argued. 

“I was a templar,” he explained, trying to assert reason. “I know what they’re capable of. The Breach is too dangerous to even attempt an expenditure of such unrestrained power. The rebel mages are _not_ an option.”

“Was?” Daena scoffed, annoyance boiling over to animosity. She had left behind her concern for his health in the wake of his vehement protest. “You sound all of a templar to me, Commander.”

“I am _not_ a templar, and I refuse to argue that fact any further with you,” he growled at her. Cullen winced, the pain behind his eyes evident, and attempted a scowl. Daena met his heated glare with an icy one of her own while the others in the room exchanged awkward glances.

“Regardless, we don’t have sufficient influence to approach either faction yet,” Josephine said, attempting to defuse the mounting tension in the room with diplomacy. “Until then, we can follow Mother Giselle’s advice and approach the Chantry in Val Royeaux.”

“Give me one good reason why we should,” Daena grumbled, her eyes never leaving Cullen’s. 

“Mother Giselle isn’t wrong,” Josephine explained. “The only power the Chantry currently possesses is their unified voice. If you could appeal to even a few of them and change their stance on the Inquisition, it may be enough to give us credibility, especially among the nobility.”

“The Lord Chancellor is a prime example of what to expect in Val Royeaux. The clerics are likely to arrest and hang me on the spot,” Daena grumbled tiredly. 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a risk,” Josephine responded simply. 

Daena closed her eyes and sighed. “I will leave for Val Royeaux in the morning.” 

“I will accompany you, Herald,” offered Cassandra. Daena nodded.

“Does this conclude our current business?” Daena asked of her advisors. When they confirmed that nothing was left on the docket for discussion, she turned and exited the War Room, resisting another harsh glare toward the Commander. She hadn’t gone far before she felt a hand close around her elbow.

“A word, Herald?” Cassandra pulled her into the shadows.

“What is it, Cass?” 

“May I speak candidly?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice just above a whisper. Daena nodded. “You need to resolve the issues you have with Commander Cullen.”

“Pardon?” Daena spoke too loudly and the word echoed through the atrium of the Chantry. “What business is it of yours?” she asked more quietly. Her eyes darted to where Cullen had emerged from the War Room. He hadn’t appeared to have noticed their conversation as he began walking toward the large double doors.

“It becomes everyone’s business when the conflict spills over into our work.” Cassandra took a breath and continued. “I know you are a mage and he is a templar. _Was_ a templar,” she corrected. “Naturally, you aren’t expected to get along. However, the Inquisition is bigger and more important than any one of us, and we are all a part of it. We must work together if we are to be successful in closing the Breach.”

“Why is he here? Why did he leave the Order?”

“I recruited him myself, in Kirkwall. He’s a good man, and I thought him more than qualified to command our forces. As to why he decided to accept my offer and leave the Order, you will have to ask him.” 

_A good man_. He had been. _Once_. The last Daena remembered of him, he was a Knight-Captain who had followed his delusional Knight-Commander blindly. He had accepted orders without question, even if it resulted in the harm of innocent mages and the abuse of power. He had cultivated a contempt for mages that appeared to still be with him now. 

Despite all of that, however, she could not deny the true reason for her animosity. Cullen had shunned her in the years following Kinloch Hold, and he had been entirely indifferent toward her in the end. In truth, she didn’t care whether or not he was still a templar. What upset her most was how he had treated her. She had been, and always would be, _just a mage_ to him. And he loathed mages. 

However, if Varric’s story held any truth, Cullen had turned against his Knight-Commander when everything had gone to shit,. He’d left the Order, though she could not imagine why. Years had passed and they both had different roles to play. Reluctantly, Daena admitted that Cassandra had a point. 

“Alright, Cass. I’ll speak with him.”

“Thank you, Herald.”

“Can’t you call me by my name, at least outside of the War Room?” she whined. 

“No,” the Seeker answered stubbornly. Hiding a smirk, she turned on her heel and left her Herald in the shadows. 

* * *

Daena paced her cabin for hours talking out a number of ways she could approach Cullen. She debated whether or not she should apologize up front, or simply negotiate a statute of civility. She questioned whether they should interact at all outside required duties. 

She was still without a plan of action when she left her cabin and bothered Varric for another deep draught of liquid bravery. Her pacing continued briefly in front of Cullen’s command tent before she finally poked her head through the flap. 

“Do you have a moment, Commander?” 

“Not really,” he answered without looking up from the paperwork cluttering his desk. His elbow dug into the varnished wood while his hand rested against the side of his face. She noticed how he still winced as his fingers massaged his temple.

“Too bad,” she snipped. “I leave for Val Royeaux in the morning, and I’d rather get this out of the way before then.” 

“Then by all means,” he sighed, dropping his quill. “Continue.”

“I...I-I’ve been…” She struggled to begin and mindlessly massaged her thumb into the palm of her marked hand. “I’ve been rude and immature,” she finally said, articulating each word. 

“That’s putting it mildly,” he replied flatly. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to apologize, arsehole,” she grumbled. “Look, we have to work together, whether we like it or not. It would be easier on both of us if we at least pretend to get along.” She stepped forward to stand in front of his desk and held out her right hand. “Are we agreed?”

He dropped his eyes to her offered hand. “I must have missed the apology part of this exchange.” When his eyes flickered back to hers, they had regained some of their brightness. It took her by surprise, and she barely stifled a gasp.

“It’s the best you’re going to get for now,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. After punishing her with the intensity of his sharp gaze for several long seconds, he finally slipped his hand into hers and shook it.

“Agreed. We will practice the civility expected of a Commander and _his Herald_ ,” he declared, his voice a little huskier than it had been before. 

“Right.” She snatched her hand from his, startled at how the warmth had left a tingle in her palm, and quickly made to exit the tent. “Embrium and elfroot,” she said as she took one step out.

“What?”

“Brew them into a tea. Add a little honey so it doesn’t taste like dirt, and it should help you sleep.” She turned away before he could respond and pushed through the flap into the cold mountain air.


	17. Herald and Company

Not surprisingly, the Chantry clerics in Val Royeaux were not so welcoming of the Herald of Andraste. After a rather enthusiastic protest of the _dreaded heretics_ of the Inquisition by one of the Chantry mothers, a group of templars descended upon the gathering. Daena’s fists clenched as her heart thudded nervously in her chest, and she actively fought her instinct to run.

Her fears were unwarranted, however, since the templars and the Lord Seeker that led them had no apparent interest in her. Daena felt the tension in her chest ease slightly at the realization. The Lord Seeker denounced the Chantry and its claim to authority and then brushed off Cassandra’s attempt to appeal to the templars for help.

“You side with heretics, support this pseudo-prophet, and you dare to ask the Order for help?” the Lord Seeker growled. “You should be ashamed.” After ranting further about the righteousness of the Order in their actions to _purge the mages_ , he ushered his templars into formation and out of Val Royeaux’s market square. 

_Good riddance_ , Daena thought. She hadn’t expected any assistance from the Order, nor did she want it. Daena did, however, briefly scan the templars’ faces upon their departure, hoping to find someone familiar. She didn’t, but she still held fast to the notion that Wesley was alive. 

“Well, I suppose we should return to Haven and report on the new friends we didn’t make,” Daena groaned to her companions. She was eager to leave Val Royeaux, but she dreaded the long trek back to Ferelden. Her feet couldn’t possibly hold anymore blisters.

To her dismay, Daena’s retreat was halted at the city gates by an elven woman in Circle robes.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cassandra identified. 

“Leader of the mage rebellion,” Solas clarified. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

“I had assumed you’d perished at the Conclave,” Cassandra said, eyeing the mage skeptically. “Why are you here?”

“The Lord Seeker is also alive and well, you’ll notice. We both sent negotiators in our stead. I feared a trap, and it seems I was right to do so.” Fiona turned her attention to Daena. “I came to see the Herald of Andraste for myself.”

“Enjoy the spectacle?” Daena asked sarcastically. “Berated by the Chantry and shunned by the Order. What must you think of the _fabled_ Herald of Andraste?” 

“I think you are looking for help in the wrong place.” Fiona scanned Daena from head to toe, focusing specifically on the hilts of her daggers. Daena could surmise from the look on the Grand Enchanter’s face that word had spread: the Herald of Andraste was a _mage_. “You of all people understand the mages’ plight. Perhaps we can help you as much as you can help us.”

“An alliance, just like that?” Daena asked skeptically.

“We are willing to discuss terms of an alliance, at least. Bann Teagan has given us sanctuary in Redcliffe Village. I implore you to consider my invitation. Such an alliance could benefit us both.” With a cordial nod, the Grand Enchanter took her leave. Daena looked to Cassandra and shrugged. 

“I suppose we have one more thing to report when we return,” Cassandra stated.

Unfortunately, their departure was further delayed by the arrival of another invitation from a Madame De Fer to an evening salon.

“Fuck that,” Daena muttered impatiently. She crumpled the gold-embossed scented paper and threw it over her shoulder. 

“I think you should go,” Cassandra said, retrieving the ball of paper. 

“Why in the world would I do that?” she scoffed.

“I know for a fact Josephine would want you to,” Cassandra answered. “It wouldn’t hurt to gain the favor of the Orlesian nobility, especially since the Inquisition is in such low standing with the Chantry and the templars.” She tilted her head, held back a smirk, and said, “Besides, it will give you an excuse to make yourself presentable for the first time in weeks.”

“Excuse me, Cass. You’re no picture of perfection yourself, you know.” She looked the Seeker up and down and pointed out the patches of dirt and soot that stained her leathers. 

“I think you ladies could both benefit from a nice pampering,” Varric offered with a grin. “I could locate a bathhouse. My treat.”

“Shut up, Varric,” Daena and Cassandra responded in unison. 

“Alright, sheesh. You try to be a gentleman,” he mumbled. Solas snickered. 

* * *

The salon, which Daena was forced to brave alone, proved to be beneficial, offering her two more allies for the Inquisition: one she found amongst the nobility, and the other through the servants. 

The noble woman, Madame Vivienne De Fer, immediately tried Daena’s patience with talk of restoring the Circles. The woman’s views on mages and how they should be treated were positively backwards, considering the Madame was a mage herself. However, Madame De Fer was living a life of luxury as the Enchanter to the Imperial Court. It was obvious she didn’t understand the hardships that Daena and the other mages had faced, locked away in their Circles. 

If it were up to her, Daena would have spat in the woman’s face. Fortunately for the Madame, Josephine’s charming Antivan lilt popped into Daena’s head, advising her to take heed and recruit the noble. _Think of the connections we could make!_ So, Daena swallowed her insult and kindly invited the mage to join the Inquisition at Haven.

“Yes, of course, darling,” the woman sang, as if she hadn’t needed the invitation at all. She would be a part of the Inquisition, whether Daena liked it or not.

The second recruit came as a result of following a strange set of clues, the first of which was discreetly given to Daena by one of the elven servants at the salon. The note led her along a path through Madame De Fer’s estate where she located several items of discarded crimson-colored clothing: a scarf, a glove, and a pair of lacey knickers. 

“What the fuck?” Daena muttered. She became especially concerned with the expectation of seeing something she’d rather not when she found a well-worn copy of the _Randy Dowager_ laying indiscreetly on one of the paisley chaise lounge sofas along the wall of a deserted hallway. 

Daena considered abandoning the trail when she heard a hearty snort and giggle from around the corner ahead of her. She pursued the sound only to find another empty hallway. To her right was a set of glass doors that had been left open, leading to a courtyard. 

She stepped through the doors and glanced around but found nothing of note. As she huffed and turned to leave, an arrow whistled and wedged into the ground in front of her. The fact that the arrow had landed at her feet and not by her head was the only indication that she was not presently in danger. 

Attached to the arrow was yet another note: 

> _Ten paces more from the door. Have some fun with the squishy one._

Daena hesitated but took the required steps forward and found herself on the other side of a large hedge. At the other end of the courtyard, a masked figure stood with his hands behind his back, holding a cavalier pose. For a moment, Daena thought it might be a pompous Orlesian statue. When the man finally spoke, she discovered that it was simply a pompous Orlesian idiot.

“Herald of Andraste!” Her title slithered from the man’s lips in a thick Orlesian accent. “How much did your Inquisition expend to discover me, hmm?” The man shifted one of his feet in front of the other, retaining his haughty peacock pose. 

“And who might you be?” Daena asked, taking a few steps closer to him. A scabbard was strapped at his hip, but he had yet to draw his rapier. 

“How dare you insult me with feigned ignorance! I’m too important for the Inquisition to overlook my presence in Val Royeaux.” He huffed and held his chin impossibly higher.

“Oh, of course!” she mocked. “Forgive me for not recognizing you earlier, ser. You must be the owner of this lovely number.” She held up the red lacey knickers and tossed them in his direction. They landed, light as a feather, atop his silly turban. 

“How dare you!” he shrieked. A snort and giggle, the same as before, echoed from the shadows. The man tugged the knickers from his head and drew his sword. “You shall pay for your insolence!”

“Just say ‘what’,” shouted a disembodied voice. It had come from behind the nobleman, and he whipped around in response. 

“What is the meaning of th—” An arrow lodged itself into the center of the man’s forehead, snapping his head back. He fell to the ground with a thud, his sword clanging on the ground. The phantom giggles broke into rambunctious laughter as a figure stepped out of the shadows.

An elven woman stood hunched over, clutching at a stitch in her side with one hand and wielding a bow in the other. 

“His shriek when you tossed the knickers in his face,” the woman gasped through her guffaw. “Fuckin’ priceless, that was!”

Daena tilted her head and cleared her throat. “And you are?”

“Bloody satisfied, that’s what!” She cackled and took a deep breath to calm herself. “So, you followed the trail well enough.”

“Yes, about that. Why am I here?”

“No idea. My people just said the Inquisition should look into this tit.” She jabbed her thumb at the dead nobleman. “I just helped you find him.”

“But why the knickers?”

The elf snorted. “Little notes lying around would be too obvious for nosy nobles.” Her lips twitched into a grin. “Plus, the look on your face…” She trailed off into another fit of giggles. 

“Who are your people? Elves?”

“What? No,” she snorted.

“The servants then?”

“Some of ‘em.” She huffed. “It’s like this: we’re the Friends of Red Jenny. I’m one. So is a fence in Montfort, and some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven once. Brothers or somethin’.”

“Who is ‘Red Jenny’?” Daena asked confused.

“She’s no one. It’s just a name, yeah?”

“And you just go around stalking and killing nobles?” Daena asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Sometimes,” the woman shrugged.

“So you’re assassins then?”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “It’s not hard to understand. We help the little people when the big people get too squashy. Sometimes we nick stuff, sometimes it’s somethin’ more. Simple, innit?” 

Daena considered her for a moment and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Name’s Sera. And you’re the Herald thingy, yeah?”

“Sure, the ‘Herald thingy’,” Daena muttered, rolling her eyes.

“I like you,” Sera snorted. “And I’d like to join this...whatever it is you got going.”

“Tell me, do you ever nick anything good off these noble tits?” Daena asked, nodding her head toward the colorfully dressed corpse.

Sera bent down and reached into the breast pocket of the man’s silk vest. She pulled out a silver flask, shook it, and smiled at the sloshing sound. “Always.” 

She handed the flask to Daena who twisted open the top. Cinnamon whiskey. Dreadful stuff, but it would do. Daena took a swig and sighed at the warmth in her chest.

“Welcome aboard, Sera.”

* * *

Daena and her new friend slipped away from Madame De Fer’s estate before anyone could discover them with the deceased Lord Something-or-Other, and made for the camp that Cassandra and the others had set up just outside the city. 

After introducing Sera and explaining that the Madame would make for Haven in her own time, Daena stretched out in front of the fire and nibbled on a piece of dried jerky. Cassandra handed her a folded piece of parchment with a broken seal.

“What’s this?” Daena asked.

“Correspondence from Haven,” Cassandra answered stiffly. “You need to be appraised of new information, and we’ll need to send a response before heading back.”

Daena unfolded the letter and tilted it toward the fire to cast more light over the messy scribbles that were scrawled over the parchment.

> _Herald and Company:_
> 
> _I trust you made it to Val Royeaux in fair time. Inquisition scouts have completed work on three watchtowers in the Hinterlands. As a result, our deal with horsemaster Dennett is fulfilled. He will be providing the Inquisition with his equine charges._

Daena rolled her eyes and sighed. _Equine charges? They’re horses_ , she thought forcefully.

> _They will be available for escort to Haven upon your next venture to the Hinterlands. This new resource should cut down on your travel time significantly. We have also established a steady line of transport of other useful raw materials from the Hinterlands that will benefit the smithy._
> 
> _Josephine would like to stress the importance of making as many possible nobility connections as you can while in Val Royeaux, as they would be beneficial to our cause._
> 
> _New refugees arrive every day, many of them being mages and templars. As you’d expect, tensions between the two factions are increasing, living in such close quarters, and I may not be able to keep the peace for long. I have sent them to opposite ends of Haven in hopes to keep the peace until your return, but I have little faith that this solution will hold fast._
> 
> _We are also in the company of a rather large Qunari and his merry band of miscreants, which isn’t helping matters. They like to stir the pot. The Qunari would like to discuss terms for a mercenary contract, but he refuses to speak with anyone but the Herald herself._
> 
> _These and other matters require your immediate attention, Herald. I implore you to return to Haven as soon as your business in Val Royeaux is complete._
> 
> _Regards,  
>  Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford_

Daena grinned mischievously as she finished off her jerky and washed it down with the cinnamon whiskey. After commissioning a sheet of parchment and writing materials from Varric, she set to work on her response.

> _Commander,_
> 
> _Our business in Val Royeaux is complete. I’m sure Leliana’s little birds will have delivered the news before you receive this letter, but we’ll deliver a full report upon our return. Inform Josephine that we have some new allies, one of which is as ~~uppity~~ noble as it gets. She’ll be thrilled._
> 
> _As for the horses, ~~the Inquisition thanks you for your due diligence on the project~~ ~~my feet thank you for the help~~ , it’s about damn time we got some. Maker, have you ever walked for three straight weeks across country? It’s been years since my feet have seen that kind of punishment. I’ve got blisters the size of my fist. _
> 
> _We will head for the Hinterlands immediately. Obtaining the horses is our top priority._

She thought of the sour face he would have when he learns she isn’t returning to Haven as early as he’d like, and snickered. 

> _You have extensive training with this sort of crowd control, Commander. I’m sure you can handle it. As for the Qunari, buy him a drink. Grace him with your impeccable charm, and I’m sure he’ll crack right open._
> 
> _I expect it will be another month or so before we return to Haven. Try not to let anyone burn the place down._
> 
> _Regards,  
>  Daena and Company_
> 
> _P.S. - Your handwriting is bloody awful._

“We can leave for Haven at first light,” Cassandra said as Daena handed her the folded and sealed response letter.

“No,” Daena answered. “We leave for the Hinterlands.”

“But the letter said—”

“I know what it said, but there is plenty of business to do in the Hinterlands first.” Daena had deliberately left out the part about the mages from her letter. She was quite certain Cullen would be furious and might actually send someone to retrieve them before they could make contact. He’d find out soon enough, but she needed the head start. 

Daena also delighted in the idea of defying his emphatic suggestion that she return to Haven. She would not easily yield to his beck and call. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Cassandra conceded. “First light, then. Solas and I will take first watch.”

“No, you, Solas, and Varric should get some rest. Sera and I will be first.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave yourself alone with someone we do not yet know,” Cassandra whispered.

“I’ll be fine, Cass,” Daena said. 

“I’m right here, ya,” the elf shouted from across the fire. “Big stupid ears make for bloody good hearin’. ‘Bout all they’re good for.”

“Varric, you have first watch with Daena and Sera,” ordered Cassandra, ignoring Sera’s remark and disregarding Daena’s lack of concern. The Seeker scowled when Varric groaned in response to her command. 

“Come on, Varric,” Daena chuckled. “We’ve got someone new to swindle at Wicked Grace.”

“Fat chance at that,” Sera responded with rounded cheeks, the words distorted around a mouth full of cheese and jerky.


	18. Muscle and Horns

Upon arrival to the Hinterlands, a raven delivered the advisors’ response to Daena’s previous missive. Daena broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment at the sight of legible script.

> _Herald and Company,_
> 
> _We understand you have business to attend to in the Hinterlands. I’d like to bring another related item to your attention. Recently, all communications from the Grey Wardens have ceased. No one has seen or heard from them in months. This occurrence is not entirely unconventional on its own. However, with the attack on the Conclave and the death of the Divine following on the heels of their disappearance, I find the coincidence a bit curious. If you have the time, seek out a Warden Blackwall in the Hinterlands. He is rumored to be recruiting in the area. Our hope is that he may be able to shed some light on what the Wardens are up to._
> 
> _Lady Vivienne has sent word ahead of her arrival. She should be at Haven before your return. Josephine was absolutely thrilled to hear of our new recruit, of course. Lady Vivienne is well connected in the Imperial Court and should be able to provide much needed assistance and support from the Orlesian nobility. Well done, Herald._
> 
> _We have sent word to horsemaster Dennet alongside this letter to alert him to your pending arrival. I understand you and the others are in much need of his services. I wish you well on your return._
> 
> _-Nightingale_

As Daena’s eyes scanned the letter, a smirk touched her lips. At the bottom of the page was an unsigned, nearly illegible scribble:

> _Drinking was useless, and the bloody Void is about to break loose in Haven. You must return immediately._

Daena chuckled and passed the correspondence to Cassandra. “We have horses to obtain, a Warden to track, and a Commander that can’t stand to be apart from me any longer,” she explained with a sarcastic grin before the Seeker had a chance to read the letter. “Let’s get moving.”

Redcliffe Farms was Daena’s first stop, naturally. Horsemaster Dennet was ready and waiting with a well-bred team of Ferelden chargers. After a bit of crafty persuasion on Daena’s part, the horsemaster agreed to service the beasts personally. Daena and her companions selected their horses, and the horsemaster set a path for Haven, accompanied by the remainder of the chargers and a squadron of Inquisition soldiers acquired from locally established camps. Daena and her companions could not have been more delighted to relieve their feet of their endless trudging. 

After camping for the night, Daena and the others continued on to Redcliffe Village to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona. In a stroke of luck, they encountered their Warden of interest along the way. 

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?” Daena called. 

The bearded man, decked out in padded warrior armor branded with a griffon, was barking orders at a group of fidgeting villagers. They wore simple clothes of wool and cotton and held splintered wooden shields and dull iron swords. Blackwall appeared to be the real deal, but the men he commanded hardly seemed like Wardens. 

“Yes, how do you know my name?” the burly man asked. 

“Lucky guess?” she replied snarkily. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” he barked, somewhat panicked. Before she could answer, a group of bandits descended upon their group. The brigands were hardly a match for a Warden, a Seeker, two expert archers, and a rather accomplished duelist; they were dispatched within seconds.

“Well that was a foolish waste of their time,” Daena said as she slipped her blades back into their sheaths. “And now they’re dead.”

“Stop dancing,” Blackwall ordered after he dismissed the frightened looking villagers, directing them back home. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Daena,” she answered. “But you may know me better as…” She stopped and sighed. “The Herald of Andraste,” she finished flatly. Each time she repeated the title, she cringed inwardly.

“The Herald? Forgive me my rudeness, my lady,” he said with a bow of his head. She rolled her eyes. “What brings you to me, if I may ask?”

“The Wardens,” she responded bluntly. “They’ve disappeared. All of them, except for you apparently. Where did they go?”

“I suppose they could be anywhere, my lady.” 

“That’s not really an answer. Surely you have some idea of where your brethren have gone.”

“I’ve been on the road, recruiting on my own. Those men you saw with me were my latest conscripts. I have not made contact with the Wardens for some time.”

“And why not?” she asked, turning a suspicious eye on him.

“There’s been no need. My job is to recruit, nothing more. However, there is no Blight at the moment. Perhaps the Wardens have temporarily retired.”

“No Blight, and yet you still seek to add to your numbers? Wouldn’t the Wardens message you to return from the field? Where do you even send your conscripts?”

“You saw that last lot. I haven’t had a promising recruit in some time, so I send most of them back home,” the Warden explained. “All others have been sent to Weisshaupt for induction. But, again, there is no Blight, so demand for men has been low. The Wardens might have sent me a message, but perhaps the runner got lost or something,” he mused.

“Perhaps.” She pursed her lips. “So you have no idea where the Wardens are?”

“I’d assume the bulk of them are in Weisshaupt. Beyond that, I’m afraid I do not know.”

Daena groaned, frustrated. She turned to Cassandra. “Well this was a bloody bust. Let’s move on.” Cassandra nodded and they turned to leave.

“Wait,” Blackwall called. “Perhaps I can help you in other ways.”

“How so?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. 

“I’m an expert swordsman, for one,” he boasted with a wide grin. “And the Wardens harbor treaties.”

“What kind of treaties?” she asked, a brow arched in interest.

“Treaties that could oblige people to help you. Wardens use them during the Blights to rally aid.” Daena considered him for a moment and glanced to Cassandra for guidance. The Seeker shrugged, but seemed agreeable to the idea.

“Fine. You are welcome to join the Inquisition, provided you can produce these treaties,” Daena explained. “Can you?”

Blackwall shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced briefly to the ground at her feet. “The treaties are with the Wardens, of course,” he explained, voice slightly unsteady. “If we find them, you’ll have your treaties. I’m sure of it.”

* * *

Daena couldn’t be sure why she was standing on the steps of Redcliffe’s Chantry, hesitant of a trap that surely awaited her on the other side of the doors. Every instinct screamed for her to turn tail and leave Redcliffe as soon as possible, and yet here she was, her hand poised on the ornate door handle. 

She and her party had become aware of several disturbing things upon their arrival to Redcliffe Village: Fiona had not invited them in Val Royeaux, as she had claimed she hadn’t even left Redcliffe since before the Conclave; Bann Teagan had abandoned his stronghold, presumably by force; and Tevinter magisters had assumed control of the town. One such Tevinter, Magister Alexius, appeared to be the leader, and Fiona had willfully indentured herself and the refuged mages to him and his people. 

It was clear that Magister Alexius was the person with whom Daena should parley, and so a meeting was arranged. Natural hostilities against Tevinter aside, Magister Alexius was deemed untrustworthy upon first encounter.

“Welcome. I’ve been so eager to meet you.” The words had slithered from Alexius’ lips as he greeted Daena in the local tavern. “I expect there is much to talk about.” He’d given her a sly grin and gestured for her to sit across from him at a wooden table. He was right on one account: they had plenty to talk about. 

However, discussions had been interrupted by Alexius’ son, who suddenly appeared faint and grasped at Daena’s hands as he stumbled forward, almost to his knees. An obviously worried Alexius and his entourage had swiftly excused themselves from the tavern, leaving Daena with a crumpled piece of parchment in her hand. 

> _Come to the Chantry. You are in danger._

Now, here she stood, reluctantly following the note’s instructions. Cassandra had argued that they leave Redcliffe immediately and confer with the advisors. It was the magister’s son that had delivered the message, after all. How could they trust him? However, Solas had suggested they follow the note. Worst case, they’d deal with the magisters sooner rather than later. Varric had also been in favor of going to the Chantry. _Whatever happens,_ he’d said, _it should make for an interesting story._

With a heavy sigh, Daena pushed open the door to the Chantry and tensed, expecting a barrage of fire or lightning to rain down on her and her companions. Instead, she felt a familiar sting in her left hand, and the nave erupted in a flash of green.

“Good, you’re finally here,” a cheerful voice said. A man, dressed in colorful silk Tevinter robes, waved an ornamented mage’s staff at the rift crackling at the center of the room. “Help me close this, would you?”

She did, of course. Tevinter trap or no, the rift needed to be dealt with immediately. Though Daena and her companions closed the rift as swiftly as any other, it was clear that this rift was far from standard. Pockets of space around the rift became twisted variations of time, speeding up or slowing down considerably. It was disorienting, but ultimately beneficial. Standing in a particular spot allowed Daena to swipe twice as many strikes with her blades as she would have normally. 

“Magnificent!” the man praised with a twitch of his expertly sculpted mustache when the rift finally closed with a loud snap. “How does that work exactly?” he asked, waving his hands dramatically. When Daena failed to answer, determined to glare at him suspiciously, he laughed. “You don’t even know do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and poof! Rift closes. Fascinating!”

“Who are you, and more importantly, _why_ am I here?” she asked impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest. The man’s curly mustache twitched again, apparently unperturbed by her tone.

“Getting ahead of myself, I see. Forgive me,” he apologized as he bowed low, his right arm stretched outward to his side. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, at your service.”

“Another Tevinter,” Cassandra warned. “Be careful with this one.”

“Bloody noble, at that,” followed Sera, who drew her bow tight, ready to fire. “This pointy’s just itching to turn him all holey. Please say I can, pretty please!” 

“Suspicious friends you have. I’m a friend of Alexius’ son, Felix,” he explained, as if that detail absolved him of any skepticism. He seemed unmoved by Sera’s threat, and Daena motioned for Sera to relax. After a tense moment, she reluctantly obeyed, lowering her bow and scrunching her face at the Tevinter. 

“And where is Felix?” Daena asked. “Gone to fetch more of you Tevinters to surround us in here? I must say, this is a rather uninspired way to trap me and cut off my head. Or perhaps it’s my hand you’re after.” She held up her glowing hand delicately before clenching it into a fist. 

“Your flare for dramatics rivals my own, Lady Herald.” Dorian admired, and grinned. “Alexius was my mentor, and Felix is his son. Do you really think we would be working behind his back if malice toward you and the Inquisition was our intent?”

“I know nothing about you, and you still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

“You’re in grave danger. That much should be obvious, even without the note.” His eyes were bright and his face calm, but his voice carried an air of seriousness, a contrast to his previous grandiose tone. “You saw the rift we just closed, and how it twisted time around itself?” Daena nodded. “Alexius arrived here just after the Conclave, conveniently snatching the mages away from the Inquisition or anyone else. How do you suppose he got here so quickly?”

“The rift?” she guessed.

“Time magic, to be more specific. This kind of magic is wildly unstable. More time-warped rifts are appearing, and it will soon tear the very fabric of our world.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching a bit. “Well, more than the Breach already has, I suppose.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

“I helped him develop this magic,” he stated matter-of-factly. At the gleam of indignation in Daena's wide eyes, he continued. “I pleaded with Alexius to cease his research when I realized how dangerous it was. Apparently, he didn’t listen.” Dorian’s face fell slightly, his voice sounding almost sad. “He manipulated time to be here, but I can’t imagine why he’d risk so much just to gain a few hundred lackeys.”

“He didn’t do it for them,” came a voice near the entrance of the Chantry. Felix had finally arrived, and he’d come alone. Felix locked eyes with Daena. “He did it to get to you.”

Felix proceeded to explain what he knew of his father’s plans. Alexius was working for a group of Tevinter extremists called the Venatori. The group followed someone referred to only as the Elder One, and it was this mysterious character that desired the capture of the Herald of Andraste.

“What does he want with me?” Daena asked, bewildered.

“What could anyone want with a lovely prophet of Andraste, clutching a handful of powerful magic, such as yourself?” Dorian mused. 

“You have a point. Maker’s fucking balls!” Daena growled. She turned to Cassandra. “What’s the plan, Cass?” It was Dorian who answered.

“If what Felix says is true, Alexius will arrange another meeting with you, and it will be a trap. I could tell you to stay away, but I suspect you’ll do the opposite.” Dorian smirked at her. “Let me dig around to see what else I can find out. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. But if you do decide to face him, I want to be there.”

“How do I know I can trust you not to betray me to him?” Daena felt the need to ask the question, but there was a tug of something familiar inside her that led her to believe she already knew the answer.

With a charming flash of white teeth, Dorian replied, “Trust is a funny thing, my dear Herald.”

* * *

It was late afternoon as Daena approached Haven at a leisurely pace, enjoying the rhythmic trot of her newly acquired charger. She threaded her fingers through the beast’s dark chestnut mane and tried to untangle the knots that had gathered in the soft hair on their journey from Redcliffe. When her finger snagged on a particularly stubborn tangle, the horse whinnied and bucked his head in protest. 

“Sorry, Handsome,” Daena muttered, patting his neck softly. Aptly named, his skin was a russet brown with splashes of cream, and his eyes were the color of whiskey. Strong muscles lined a large frame, and he stood taller than the rest of the chargers in the team. He was a fairly well-mannered horse. He never startled at loud noises and always responded well to the command of his reins. His only drawback, and she could hardly blame the beast, was that his appetite was as big as his girth. Though he’d promptly straighten at the tug of his reins, he still frequently stopped to nibble at whatever he could find along the path.

After corralling her horse into the pen with the others, taking a moment to thank horsemaster Dennet again for his services, she strolled through the gates of Haven’s main village. Impassioned shouts could be heard from the direction of the Chantry, and she tip-toed closer to determine the cause of commotion. Two groups, the distinction of colorful robes and silver armor clearly dividing them into mage and templar, stood in front of the Chantry doors pointing fingers, shaking fists, and shouting accusations at one another. At the center of them stood a red-faced Commander, shouting with equal fervor.

Daena winced and turned away, unwilling to deal with the hostile mob so soon after returning from her long trip. _Cass will deal with it_ , she thought ruefully and ducked into the welcoming dimness of the tavern. Sera had already found her way there and was currently drinking a poor fool under the table near the bar. Daena grinned and, thirsty enough to drink the establishment’s swill, she ordered a stein and dropped a coin on the counter. As she turned away from the bar, she gasped sharply and nearly spilled the water-beer all over the front of her dusty, travel-worn leathers. 

On the other side of the tavern sat a rather rough-looking crew of men and women she did not recognize. Among them was an enormous mass of muscle and horns. The horned figure bellowed with laughter at her reaction to his presence, as did the men and women around him. _The Qunari and his merry band of miscreants_ , Daena recalled with a smirk, thinking of Cullen's first letter she had received in Val Royeaux.

“Never seen a Qunari before, I take it?” the stranger asked in a deep, but jovial voice. He wore a patch on one eye, while the other eye crinkled with amusement.

“Not that I can recall, no,” she answered, her heart calming from it’s previous mad stammering. Daena had heard of the Qunari occupation in Kirkwall, but she had never been allowed to leave the Gallows to see it. She’d also heard how the Champion of Kirkwall had defeated their leader single-handedly. If that creature had been half as large as this one, the Champion truly was a marvel. 

The Qunari glanced at her faintly glowing hand. “Come and sit, Herald,” he called congenially. Some of the men and women shuffled to make room for her across the table from the Qunari, and she took a seat. 

“Come to discuss a mercenary contract, then?” she asked, taking a reluctant sip of her water-beer.

“Getting right down to business. I like that,” he said, grinning. “Not much to discuss though. It should be a very agreeable arrangement.”

“Is that so? What are you offering?”

“Our services, of course,” he answered, waving his arm at the people around him. “The Chargers are the best mercenaries money can buy,” he boasted. “And you’ll have The Iron Bull personally at your side in battle.” A smug grin spread across of the face of the Qunari.

“I take it that’s you,” she said flatly, eyeing his horns. He grunted his affirmation and took a swig of his stein. The aroma of something much stronger than water-beer wafted to her nose. “So what do you want in return?”

“Information,” he stated bluntly. “I work for the Ben-Hassrath. Do you know what that is?” Daena shook her head. “Well, the purpose of the Ben-Hassrath is difficult to translate, but we are essentially agents, similar to spies. We gather information, anything that could benefit, or hinder, the Qun.”

Daena gaped at him in disbelief. “You’re a Qunari spy, and you just _told_ me?”

“It would be an even exchange, of course,” he explained pragmatically. “We would also provide you with information that could help your cause.”

“What sort of information is the Qun looking for?” She eyed him skeptically.

“The Qun is concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that can cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition and get close to those in charge. It’s why I’m here.”

“You’re a bloody awful spy, you know,” she smirked.

“You think I can hide a secret like that from something called _The Inquisition_?” He laughed heartily. “You give me information I can feed to the Qun. Nothing that could compromise your operations, of course, just enough to keep the Qun from getting antsy and mounting an invasion. In return, I provide information on enemy movements, suspicious activity, _intriguing gossip_.” The Iron Bull accentuated the last part with a waggle of his right eyebrow. “Basically, a little bit of everything.”

“What about payment?”

“Your ambassador, Josephine, has worked it all out. And your spymaster seemed quite keen on the information deal.”

“The Commander said you wouldn’t discuss the arrangement of this contract with anyone but me, but it sounds like everything is already in place.” Daena crossed her arms over her chest and cocked an eyebrow. 

“Ah, the Commander. I said that just to rile him up. He got pretty angry too. I wanted to see how red his face could get.” The Iron Bull grinned ruefully, and Daena laughed. “All we need is your approval.”

“You know, I just obtained a team of chargers. Magnificent beasts they are too. What makes your Chargers so special?”

The Iron Bull raised his stein and motioned to his Chargers, who raised their steins in turn. They collectively took a deep breath and sang a melodious chant:

> _No one can beat the Charges ‘cause we’ll hit you where it hurts. Unless you know a tavern with loose cards and looser skirts!_

Daena burst into a fit of laughter and applauded. The Chargers grinned and swigged at their drinks. “Alright then,” Daena conceded. “You’ve got a deal.”

The Iron Bull grabbed Daena’s stein and dumped its contents on the ground. She couldn’t find it in herself to protest the loss. The Bull then uncorked a large flask, poured a dark liquid into the stein, and pushed it across the table to her. After filling his own stein with the same contents, he corked the flask and set it aside.

“We drink to seal the deal,” he declared and raised his stein. She mirrored his gesture and brought the stein to her nose for a sniff. The liquid smelled sharp and bitter, enough to make her nose scrunch, but she brought the rim of the stein to her lips and tilted it back.

Liquid fire poured into her mouth and down her throat, strangling her. She slammed the stein down on the table, some of the contents splashing out, and coughed, clutching at her throat. The Iron Bull was laughing and drinking as easily as if his stein contained water. The burn quickly faded from her mouth and throat, but everything from her lips to her chest was completely numb. 

After taking a moment to catch her breath, a wide grin spread across Daena’s lips, and she tilted the stein back again to drain its contents. She didn’t cough as much the second time, and the Iron Bull grinned approvingly. 

“Keep the tavern supplied with whatever that is,” she said as she motioned to her stein, “and this could be the start of an exquisite partnership.”

Daena consumed another few hearty gulps of what the Iron Bull called Maraas-Lok before the room started to spin faster than she could withstand. She stumbled to her feet and mumbled incoherently as she pushed her way out of the tavern. Apparently, no one dared to touch her because she emerged into the light of the setting sun unhindered by supportive hands. Of course, the only thing she was truly aware of was the roaring laughter of the Iron Bull and his Chargers behind her. 

Instead of hooking a right toward her cabin as she intended, the relentless spinning sensation behind her eyes sent Daena wandering to the left toward the Chantry. She tripped on the incline in the path and sprawled ungracefully into the dirt. Rolling onto her back, she draped her hand over her eyes and giggled uncontrollably.

In the distance, she could hear a barking shout that sounded vaguely like a command, but she couldn’t find the strength to lift her head in acknowledgement. She rode the waves of her inebriation and basked in the cool wind for what felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes, before she heard the same voice again, closer this time. 

“Herald!” the voice exclaimed. “Are you alright?” A warm hand closed over the one she was using to shield her eyes and lifted it away. She squinted, trying to focus the multiple forms into one, and identified a blur of red, tipped with gold. 

“Not _Herald_ ,” she rasped, her throat ravaged by the fiery drink. “Bloody bastard.” Her vision cleared further just in time to see Cullen’s round worried eyes narrow to slits. A giggle erupted from her, and he waved a hand in front of his scrunched nose.

“I see you’ve met the mercenaries,” he said flatly, his voice void of the concern it held previously. “Maker, how much of that poison did you drink?”

Daena lifted her hand and measured an inch with her thumb and forefinger. Then, with a mischievous grin, she stretched her arms out wide and said, “This much!” Daena fell into another fit of giggles as Cullen attempted to pull her to her feet. 

“This behavior is quite unsavory for someone such as yourself,” he chided. “You’re lucky most of the villagers are still gathered near the Chantry.” He pulled her arm around his shoulders, wrapped his own arm around her waist for support, and tucked her against his side.

“Go fuck—” _Hiccup!_ “A nug, Commander.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I’ll get right on that.”

Daena’s consciousness wavered, and she couldn’t remember much of the walk— _or was it more of a stumble?_ —to her cabin. Before she knew it, she was settled into her bed with the covers drawn over her. The same warm hand that had helped her up from the ground now brushed the dirt from her hair and face. Her warped perception of time made it impossible to tell how long the hand swept across her skin, or whether or not the fingers actually lingered on her cheek. The only sensation she could be sure of was the sudden absence of warmth when the hand was withdrawn. 

At this, she opened her eyes, only then realizing they had been closed. She managed to catch a glimpse of Cullen’s broad form as he slipped through the front door and closed it behind him. With the final click, as if by hypnosis, she fell instantly asleep.


	19. Knight in Shining Silks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been awhile, and I'm sorry. Life quite frequently sucks. Thank you to all that are sticking out the story with me!
> 
> This chapter was incredibly fun to write, so I hope you enjoy it. The next chapter is a doozie, and is my longest one yet. It is currently in editing with my beta, so it should be up within the next day or two.

Someone was driving an iron spike through her skull. Pain swelled and ebbed repeatedly with every blow of the weighty sledgehammer as it pushed the metal deeper into her brain. It was relentless. Each fresh blow brought a wave of nausea and she wanted to scream, but all she could manage was a raspy groan. As she shifted, her stiff limbs shrieked in agony.

Daena dared a peek through crusty eyelids, and an intense light seared her eyes, causing her to squeeze them shut. She groaned again, smacking her tongue away from the roof of her dry mouth. Slowly, she brought a hand to touch her head, half expecting to feel the spike that was surely lodged there. 

_Nope, just a hangover_ , she thought wearily. Then she laughed, and subsequently winced as a new wave of pain swept through her body. She hadn’t had a hangover in years. It was amusing, albeit unpleasant. _Excruciating_. She’d have to remember to thank the Iron Bull for the drink next time she saw him.

After several languid moments, Daena reluctantly willed herself out of bed. She hissed as her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, but adjusted quickly and stood to her full height. Bending forward and back, she stretched her aching limbs, feeling the satisfying pops of her joints, and opened her mouth in a mighty yawn. At the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a small white square on the floor in front of the door. As she moved closer, she found that it was a folded piece of parchment. She bent down to retrieve it, unfolded it, and smirked as she recognized the now-familiar chicken scratch.

> _War Room, at noon._

Daena peeked out a nearby window and judged that it was late morning, if not already midday. She sighed and proceeded to get dressed, opting for the soft beige tunic and breeches in lieu of the dusty leathers she had been traveling in for weeks. She tamed her bed head with her fingers, tying the curls back with a leather string, and did her best to scrape the stink out of her mouth with a cloth. After securing her blades at her hips, because she’d never go anywhere without them if she could help it, she headed for the War Room.

The village was bustling with activity, and Daena could hear the distant clang of the smithy as if the sounds reverberated loudly from inside her skull. The resident merchant was peddling his new goods, and the few children that resided in Haven were kicking around a ball of rags. The Chantry, too, was filled with people, the flutter of their prayers and gossip echoing in every corner of the atrium. 

Daena pushed open the door to the War Room and was surprised to find the meeting had not yet started. In fact, only one advisor was so far in attendance.

“You must be early,” Daena said.

“And you,” Cullen answered with a jut of his chin, lifting his eyes from a stack of reports. “Sleep well?” The shadow of a smirk touched his lips. 

“Like death.” She hadn’t dreamed or shifted all night, that she could recall. She remembered closing her eyes, and then opening them again to the brilliant, burning light of day. Daena took note of how the dark circles under Cullen’s eyes, that had been prominent before, had faded. “And you?”

Cullen took a moment to consider before he answered, “Better, thank you.”

Daena glanced down to her side of the table and noticed a large stein and a round plate holding what appeared to be a sweet roll. “For me?” she asked incredulously.

“I thought you’d be hungry,” he explained with a slight shrug. “And you need to hydrate.” His eyes narrowed slightly in reproach and then glanced down at the stein. 

“Dear Commander, do you not know that the cure for a hangover is to consume the hair of the mabari that bit you?” A light chuckle rumbled in Cullen’s chest, and Daena grinned. She took a long swig of the cool water and swallowed with a heavy sigh. Her headache and the stiffness in her limbs alleviated slightly with the rush of hydration.

“I have heard that. Water is better for you.” 

Daena hummed in response and bit a large chunk out of her sweet roll, chewing it meditatively as she mulled over her thoughts. She had considered whether or not to bring up the events of the previous evening. Being drunk was nothing new to her, but she had been especially inebriated, almost incoherently so. And while Cullen was mostly a tight arse, he had made a good point. The people revered her, whether she liked it or not, and it would do her no good to go stumbling about the village, giggling and otherwise making a fool of herself. 

“Thank you,” she blurted, her mouth making the decision her brain could not. “For last night.” Cullen, who had returned his attention to his reports, glanced up in surprise. “And for this.” She motioned to the food, drink, and the War Room itself. “It was your idea to delay the meeting.”

“Uh, yes,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Then he cleared his throat and added, “Don’t think the delay was on your account. I had a great deal of work to do this morning.” His eyes returned to the stack of reports in his hand, but the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

Before Daena could respond further, the door opened and admitted Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine. 

“I heard someone had a fun night,” cooed Leliana as she grinned at Daena. Josephine perked at the promise of interesting gossip. Daena laughed awkwardly, but before she had time to stumble her way through an explanation, Cullen stepped in and announced the start of their meeting. 

Daena discreetly nodded her head in Cullen’s direction, expressing her gratitude, and proceeded to recant her ventures to Val Royeaux and the Hinterlands with Cassandra. 

“We’ve got Tevinter to deal with now,” Cassandra explained when they reached the part about Alexius, the Venatori, and the mysterious Elder One. “They control the mages, and I don’t think I need to tell any of you how much of a danger that is.”

“Alexius will need to be dealt with, and the mages brought here to close the Breach,” Daena added, casting a wary glance in the direction of her Commander. To her surprise, he said nothing, but his face was the picture of weary resignation. Cassandra and Leliana both agreed with Daena’s decision, citing the danger of having Tevinter practically on their doorstep. Josephine, too, agreed, pointing out that the mages had the potential to be more cooperative than the templars. Cullen remained silent.

“Anything to add, Commander?” Daena asked, prodding for an opinion she already knew.

“I still disagree _wholeheartedly_ with the idea of using the mages to close the Breach,” he responded, shaking his head. “The templars are a much safer choice. But I seem to be outnumbered, and there is little point in pounding my fists bloody against a brick wall.”

“Then it’s settled,” Josephine said, scribbling something hastily across the parchment on her writing board. “We will call upon the mages for help with the Breach. How do we handle Alexius?”

“That problem should take care of itself, in time,” Daena explained with a smirk. “Dorian, the Tevinter that I spoke with in Redcliffe, is convinced Alexius will reach out to me to set up a meeting. It will undoubtedly be a trap, but we’ll have a leg up on him. For now, it’s just a waiting game.”

With the business of the day concluded, the meeting was adjourned. Daena caught the elbow of her spymaster as she made for the door. 

“Is there any progress on what we discussed a while back?” Daena asked quietly. Josephine and Cassandra had already left the room, but Cullen had lingered, shuffling his reports into an orderly stack. Daena glanced earnestly at him, urging him to _please leave_ , and he nodded as he rounded the War Table and exited the room. 

“So far, I have found no trace of Wesley,” Leliana answered when they were finally alone. Daena’s shoulders slumped, but she managed to keep the disappointment from her facial features. “Don’t worry, Herald. I am very good at what I do.” Leliana winked. “Sometimes, it just takes time.” She placed a gentle hand on Daena’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find something.”

“Of course. Thank you, Leliana.” Daena did her best to smile and left the spymaster behind as she exited the War Room in search of the Iron Bull.

* * *

“Congratulations, ser,” Daena praised as she clapped her hands and bowed dramatically. “For giving me my first hangover in years.”

The Iron Bull laughed. After a brief visit to her cabin to change into her leathers, which required a rigorous beating to get rid of the dirt, Daena had gone in search of the horned mercenary. He was not, as would be expected, in the tavern with the other Chargers. Instead, Daena found him standing outside the gates of Haven, spectating the sparring recruits. 

“That was the most fun I’ve had drinking in some time,” Daena added. “And the most miserable I’ve been upon waking.” She rubbed at her head, the sharp ache slowly fading as the day progressed. 

“Glad I could be of service,” he said, grinning. “You’re the only human outside my Chargers that could consume as much as you did and still walk, and they’ve had years to build up a tolerance.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have called it _walking_. The Commander found me lying on my back in the dirt and practically dragged me back to my cabin last night.” Her eyes flickered to the training field. Cullen was locked in a mock duel with one of his recruits, gold curls soaked with sweat and plastered to his glistening forehead. He had removed his preposterous cloak, but remained in his armor.

“Your templar,” Iron Bull said, jerking his chin in Cullen’s direction, “couldn’t handle one gulp. But I give him credit for trying.”

“He drank it?” she guffawed, trying to imagine his face as the fire hit his tongue. At the sound of her laughter, Cullen glanced over. His eyes lingered for a moment between her and the Bull before returning to the task in front of him. 

“Aye, he tried. He went green in the face, but he was too polite to spew it back out. Instead, he promptly excused himself and puked his guts out all over the bushes outside.” Daena barked with laughter again, and again she drew Cullen’s attention for a brief moment, his eyes connecting with hers. His face had reddened, but she couldn’t be sure if it was from physical exertion or embarrassment. 

“How did you know he was a templar?” she asked as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “He doesn’t wear the armor.”

“It’s in the way he fights.” The Bull pointed toward Cullen’s form. “He angles the bottom of his shield so that it reflects spells, and he keeps most of his body behind it. His upper body faces the opponent, but remains perpendicular to his legs. Keeping the feet spread apart, but with one in front of the other, allows him the ability to move forward and back quickly.” 

Daena had followed Bull’s indication of each aspect of Cullen’s form. She found herself admiring Cullen’s skill and wondered how he could move so gracefully, weighed down as he was by the heavy everite armor. 

It suddenly occurred to her that she had never seen him fight. She’d known him for countless years but had never been in any position to see him locked in battle with an opponent. There had been moments at Kinloch when mages would try and rebel against the templars, but a simple smite was generally effective in stopping them. Until the very end, when the Ferelden Circle was thrown into chaos, there had been little need for any physical confrontation.

“The shift of his eyes indicates that he is keenly aware of what is in front of him, as well as what could be around him,” Iron Bull continued, pulling her from her thoughts. “Helpful, if there are any mages flanking his peripheral.” 

Daena’s lips curled impishly and said, “Let’s test these skills of his.” She set a path for the training field in a confident stride.

Cullen was near the end of his assault on the recruit he was training. The young man jerked his wooden sword awkwardly from side to side as he desperately gulped for air, trying frantically to stave off defeat against his Commander. He had held his own against Cullen for a while, but he was tired. He didn’t have the required stamina for such a battle, and Cullen was repeatedly vocal on that point. 

“Don’t think about how much your limbs ache, or how little breath you can pull into your lungs,” Cullen instructed. “The second you give in to fatigue, it’s over. Your opponent wins.”

Daena’s stride converted to a sprint as she drew her blades. When she was within arm’s length of him, she sliced them through the air in a cross formation, but Cullen turned and blocked her attack with his shield. 

“Nice block, Commander,” Daena said, her eyes alight with mischief as she began to circle him. Cullen’s trainee had fallen back, and the other sparring recruits quieted, dropping their swords and shields at their sides to watch. 

“You weren’t exactly subtle,” he responded, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. 

“I was going more for the element of surprise,” she explained. Cullen followed her movement, careful to keep his back guarded. She was a mage, but she fought like a rogue. If she took his back, the fight would be over. 

When he hesitated to counter her initial attack, she knew she must make the next move. Faking to his left, she dodged to his right and swiped her obsidian blade at his side. He blocked it with his sword and shoved his shield against her, pushing her back. She lunged in again, head on, and spun out of the way of his slashing sword, retaliating with a stab of her silver blade. The tip grazed off his left spaulder, and she somersaulted as his sword swept horizontally, the edge of his blade narrowly avoiding the top of her head. 

Once on her feet again, she engaged in a flurry of swipes and dodges and rolls, nicking his armor here and there, but she was otherwise blocked by his blasted shield. Frustrated, she spun her body and threw a kick aimed at his left elbow. Her boot collided with its target, and Cullen grunted as the shield he clutched dropped to the ground. She kicked it well out of the way of their established dueling ground and waited as he shook out his arm, his nerves undoubtedly electrified.

“Don’t go easy on me just because I’m a woman, Commander,” she smirked. Their group of spectators laughed hesitantly and began to whisper excitedly to each other. Cullen rolled his left shoulder and flexed the fingers that no longer had a shield to grip. 

Cullen elected not to respond and continued the fight, thrashing his sword at her. She crossed her blades to block his and shoved him away. They engaged in an even exchange of clanging blows, and Daena was sure Cullen would tire out soon, given his previous exertions with the recruit. _The second you give in to fatigue, it’s over_. Cullen’s words echoed in her head, and given the lasting effects of her hangover, she found herself battling her own weariness. 

“Andraste’s fucking tits,” she huffed in frustration as she sprang forward in a last ditch effort to best him. She aimed to swoop under his arm and circle around to his back, but Cullen clotheslined her advance while simultaneously positioning his foot just behind her leg. Waivering at the shove of his arm, she tripped on his precariously placed foot and fell hard onto her back, releasing both of her blades into the dirt. 

Cullen stepped over her, planted his feet on either side of her abdomen, and pointed the tip of his sword several inches from her throat. 

“It seems you’ve lost, Herald,” Cullen said, his lips tugging into a smug grin. A delighted cheer rose from the gathered crowd, branding the defeat in her ears. 

After a moment, Cullen withdrew his sword and sheathed it. He held out his hand to help her to her feet, and she briefly considered kicking him in the nethers. Instead, she grumbled and reluctantly took his hand. He pulled her to her feet, and the mingled odor of sweat and dirt filled her nose. The crease between Cullen’s brows that indicated fatigue and headache was uncharacteristically smooth, but the distinct crinkle of amusement framed his eyes. Staring up into the shockingly bright pools of warm honey, and feeling the pounding pulse of battle still rushing through her veins, a touch of lightheadedness filled Daena’s senses, and she momentarily forgot where she was.

All at once realizing that she was standing _far too close_ for comfort, she leapt backward, wrenching her hand from his. His brows knitted together, the absent crease forming again, and his lips straightened into a thin line. Daena bent down to retrieve her blades and sheathed them, keeping her eyes fixed safely to the center of his chest. 

“Well done, Commander,” she said, loud enough for the recruits to hear. “These men and women are learning from the best.” She glanced at the onlookers and forced a quick smile before turning on her heel to vacate the training field. 

“You need a drink,” the Iron Bull said as she approached him. 

“I need a drink,” she repeated, and followed him to the tavern.

* * *

“The trap has been set,” Leliana declared as the meeting in the War Room commenced. A letter from Alexius had arrived, a mere three days after Daena’s return to Haven. As expected, she had been invited to a private meeting with him at Redcliffe Castle. She was to arrive _alone_.

“Eager little prick, isn’t he?” Daena said, eliciting a hushed snicker from Leliana and a flush from Josephine. Cullen’s reaction to her vulgarity was unknown, as she had been unable to make direct eye contact with him since she had sparred with him on the training field. “What’s the plan?”

“Knowing it’s a trap is helpful. We simply need to disarm it.” Leliana rubbed her thumb and forefinger at her chin as she weighed their options. “My agents can easily take out his guards, but we’d need to get them inside.”

“And we’ll need a distraction,” Cassandra added. 

“I suppose I will be that distraction,” Daena sighed. “How will your agents get in?”

“I know of a secret tunnel into the castle,” Leliana answered. “It was commissioned as an escape route for the family. It isn’t very big, but I can slip a few of my agents through. It should be enough to take out the guards.”

“You’re certain?” Cullen asked. “How do you know of this tunnel? If it’s common knowledge, chances are, Alexius will have found out about it. It could be riddled with traps.”

“No one but the Bann and his family know of its existence,” Leliana replied confidently. “I know of it because I’ve used it.” The others in the room glanced to the spymaster with curious eyes, but she declined to explain further.

“Fine,” Cullen huffed. “So we depend on your agents to find their way through this secret tunnel to disarm the trap as we dangle the Herald in front of Alexius as bait.” There was a clear edge of indignation in Cullen’s voice that finally drew Daena’s attention. He was glaring at Leliana, and an angry shade of crimson colored his face from forehead to chin. As Daena stared at him, trying to determine the reason for his ire, Cullen turned his head as if he felt her eyes upon him and met her curious gaze.

To her surprise, his bright eyes held a severe note of irritation, not rage as she had presumed. On some level, it could even be interpreted as concern. Before Daena had time to decipher his attitude any further, however, the door banged open loudly behind her, making her jump.

“Greetings, my Lady Herald. Happy to see me?” Dorian’s curly mustache wiggled as he gave her a sideways grin. He was shrugging off an Inquisition soldier that had tried, and failed, to halt the interloper. 

“This man refused to wait for your meeting to conclude, Lady Herald,” the soldier explained, casting an irate glance at the Tevinter. Daena could hear the harsh slide of metal as Cullen moved to unsheath his sword.

“Step away from the Herald,” Cullen demanded. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“Easy, Commander,” Cassandra soothed. “This is Dorian, whom we met in Redcliffe. I believe he’s come to help.” Cassandra turned her steely eyes on the Tevinter, silently warning him against any hostile motives he might be concealing. 

Cullen nodded, reluctantly sheathed his sword, and ordered the soldier to return to his post, which he did without question.

“Quite right,” Dorian replied with a nod. “Alexius has more than just a few guards protecting him. You’ll never make it past his magic without my help.” 

“Then you know he’s asked for me?” asked Daena.

“Felix told me. I came as quickly as I could. I can guess what Alexius has in store for you, and it won’t be good.”

“Herald,” Cullen started, a note of what seemed like desperation in his voice. She turned to him, and his eyes were alight with anxiety. “We can’t in good conscience order you to do this. This plan puts you in the most danger. You will be walking into a trap, hoping that it will be disarmed before it is sprung.” He took a deep breath before he added, “If something goes wrong, we may lose the only thing capable of closing the Breach.”

 _Thing_. The word resonated furiously in her mind. Was that all she was to the people around her? Was she simply a tool to be used to fix the world’s problems? Once the Breach was closed, if it could be closed, what would she be then? An idol to be worshipped, or a hero? _No_. It was more likely she’d be a sacrifice, a martyr.

A wave of nausea washed over Daena, and she could feel the buzz of her magic beneath her skin. She didn’t think the surge was strong enough to burst forth as it had before in her sleep, but the fact that her magic came once again unbidden was more than a little disconcerting. Worse yet, she could feel Cullen’s uneasy gaze on her.

She felt a warm hand rest on her shoulder and turned her head to find the pale green eyes of the Tevinter looking down at her. 

“Don’t worry, my dear Herald,” Dorian said with a confident grin. “Your knight in shining silks will be there to protect you.” He held out his arms to indicate himself as her knight, and then drew one arm inward to cross over his chest as he bowed dramatically. Despite the numerous times the villagers had demonstrated a similar gesture, Daena could not find it in herself to be annoyed. 

Instead, she laughed, and Dorian winked playfully at her as he unbent at the waist.

“The templars are still an option,” Cullen interjected, clearing his throat. “It would be safer for you, for Thedas, for all of us.” His hand rested atop the pommel of his sword, and he straightened. With his shoulders squared and his eyes narrowed, he glanced from Daena, to Dorian, to the other advisors, and back again, as if to say, _This is the_ only _option_. 

“Get your agents ready, Leliana,” Daena ordered, her verdant eyes piercing Cullen’s. “We leave for Redcliffe in the morning.”


	20. Man or Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the longest chapter yet! As always, thank you for the kudos and subs. And thank you for reading! It means a lot to me. :)
> 
> WARNING: Violence/gore, character deaths in this chapter

_This was a mistake_ , Daena chided internally as she sloshed through ankle-deep ice cold water. The splashes echoed off the stone walls of a darkened corridor, lit only by the radiant red glow of jagged rocks that stuck out of the walls at odd angles. 

“Red lyrium, I suspect,” Dorian observed as he slogged through the water beside her. Blue lyrium carried a tune through the veins of those who used it, but, for mages at least, the song was nearly imperceptible. Here, where the air was stagnant, and the spikes of lyrium were almost as numerous as the stones in the walls, a sinister tune grated mercilessly against Daena’s nerves. The notes were painfully sharp and discordant, and she could almost see the waves of sound emanating from the crimson rock. 

“Yes,” she confirmed, fighting a shiver. There was far more of the lyrium here than there had been at the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and her skin prickled with gooseflesh. 

_This was a mistake._

Daena and her party had arrived at Redcliffe Castle without incident. Despite having a crew consisting of a fierce Qunari and a surly Seeker at her back—a direct violation of the request to come _alone_ —she and her companions were admitted to the main hall to speak with Alexius. 

With Dorian’s help in neutralizing the warding spells, Leliana’s scouts succeeded in disarming Alexius’ trap. One by one, the Tevinter guards were taken out, cold blades gliding silently across their throats while Daena distracted the magister. She heard the slice of flesh and the thump of bodies collapsing on the floor as the scouts completed their work, but Alexius was completely oblivious. 

Daena held the magister’s attention by questioning him about the Venatori and the Elder One, neither of which he was willing to talk about. His son finally confronted him, and Dorian emerged from the shadows to do the same. 

“Why are you doing this?” they demanded, but Alexius simply raged. The magister stood alone, and his ruse was thwarted. They _had_ him.

What no one expected, however, was the depth of the magister’s desperation.

Alexius roared with unparalleled fury, and in a wild green flash, the world fell out from under Daena’s feet. She flailed weightlessly before splashing face first into a pool of ice cold water. She suffered a moment of panic, thinking that she had perhaps landed physically in the Fade again, but the sudden presence of a warm hand on her shoulder calmed her. Dorian had fallen with her.

They had inspected their surroundings, a darkened cell that was unlocked and unguarded, and determined that they could still be at Redcliffe Castle. It was Dorian who deduced that Alexius had displaced them using his time magic, as he had seen the magister produce a special amulet before the green flash erupted, but it was difficult to determine just how far they had been thrown. 

Uncertain of what to expect of the time they now found themselves in, they hesitantly progressed through the dark corridors. The abundant evidence of red lyrium did little to quell their apprehension. 

Daena fought another shiver that snaked from the base of her spine up to her neck and shoulders. 

A strange hum flowed through the air from somewhere further down the corridor. It grew louder as they pursued the sound to a scarred wooden door. Daena pushed it open with a creak, and the hum became a clamor of cries and moans.

The room, which contained more cells, was brighter than the corridor, but only because it harbored far more red lyrium. The heavy stench of sweat and filth, and the dark tune of the twisted red song assaulted Daena’s senses. It was several moments before she regained her mental facilities, and noticed that Dorian was also recovering from a bout of discombobulation. The cells were occupied, and at closer inspection, she discovered that red lyrium was growing from the prisoner’s bodies in the same manner it grew from the stone walls.

“Fuck,” Daena gasped as she gripped and shook the bars of the first cell. Dorian gently pushed her aside, aimed the tip of his staff at the lock, and blasted the door open with a hot flash of fire. The cell door swung open with a loud clang as it collided with stone, and Daena rushed to the wounded man’s side. She carefully prodded his shivering form in search of any injuries other than the angry red rock that protruded from his neck, abdomen, and legs. As her fingers glided lightly across the man’s chest, she flipped back a torn flap of what was left of his jerkin and found a grungy patch that had become partially unstitched.

A piercing eye and a righteous sword in the clutches of the Chantry sun. _The Inquisition_. 

“What happened?” she asked desperately, but the man simply groaned raggedly. She considered trying to heal him, but she had never excelled in that school of magic. She had always been partial to the elements over the spirit, and while she could likely mend a minor surface injury, she had no hope of restoring this man to his former self. Besides that, she hadn’t practiced her magic in years. Not consciously, anyway. 

Daena looked to Dorian with wide, desperate eyes. “Can you help him?” Dorian’s eyebrows knit together as he surveyed the man’s condition from his place at the doorway of the cell. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Not likely,” he said solemnly. “All we can do for him—them—is to find our way back to our time and prevent this from ever happening.” Dorian glanced to his right at the other moaning cells in the room. 

“Of course. You’re right,” Daena sighed. As she stood, the man at her feet suddenly grasped her marked hand. His mouth twitched as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he turned her palm downward and placed his dry, cracked lips against the back of her hand. She stared at him in shock, and he released her, pulling his hand into a fist that rested against his chest. With a small nod, his eyes rolled back and his head leaned to one side. His ragged breathing slowed and his body stilled. He was gone. 

“We should get moving,” Dorian said softly. She nodded and followed him out of the cell, but a cracked voice from the other end of the room halted their movements. 

“Hello?” A fit of coughs followed, and then, “Is someone there?”

Daena exchanged a brief glance of incredulity with Dorian before approaching the source of the voice. The cell was slightly larger than the previous one, and the occupant, while plagued with the same red lyrium growths, was hunched half-standing against the wall. 

“Thank the Maker,” rasped the woman in an Orlesian accent.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” The elven woman’s robes were tattered and dirty, and her face was gaunt, but Daena was fairly certain it was her. Fiona nodded, confirming her conjecture. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Fiona said weakly. 

“What year is it?” Dorian asked abruptly. 

“Year?” Her eyes, now tinted red with the poison that flowed through her body, fell in and out of focus for a moment. “The year is 9:42 Dragon,” she answered with unexpected certainty. 

“We’ve been gone a whole year?” Daena exclaimed. “What happened? Why are you in here? Where did the red lyrium come from?” Dorian placed a hand on Daena’s shoulder to calm her frantic inquiries. 

“Alexius works for the Elder One.” Fiona struggled to get the words out, her breathing strained and irregular. “They have destroyed...everything.”

“So we are in Redcliffe? Alexius is still here?” Dorian asked hopefully.

“Yes, and yes.”

“If we can find Alexius, then we find the time amulet, if it still exists,” Dorian explained, looking to Daena with a spark of hope in his eyes. “I can use it to send us back to the point in time from which we came. Maybe,” he finished, less confidently. 

“Good,” Fiona sighed heavily, as if she had been holding her breath through the length of their conversation. 

“I said _maybe_. It might also turn us to paste,” Dorian responded dryly. 

“You must try!” Fiona’s glowing eyes widened urgently. “And you must hurry, before the Elder One learns you’re here!” With a hacking cough, Fiona slid down the wall until she was seated with her knees curled against her chest. “Some of your companions are here. Find them.” She coughed again, and when Daena and Dorian remained rooted in front of her cell, she wheezed harshly, “Go now!” 

With a sharp nod, Daena and Dorian darted for the door. They searched the entirety of both wings of the dungeons before they found anyone they immediately recognized. Though their sunken eyes shone red, there was little sign of lyrium protruding from their companions’ skins. Daena couldn’t fathom why their infection hadn’t progressed as far as it had with Fiona and the others, but she was grateful. Their bodies were, however, extremely emaciated. It appeared as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. 

“Herald? Is that you?” Cassandra squinted her eyes, but stepped away from the bars. There was an undeniable trace of fear in the line that creased her brow. 

“Hey, Boss,” the Iron Bull muttered, his voice deep but understandably fragile. His cell was adjacent to the Seeker’s, and he seemingly had no reservations on Daena’s identity. She nodded at him and turned her attention back to Cassandra.

“Cass, it’s me,” Daena said calmly, trying to be reassuring. Dorian set to work on opening both of their cells. 

“But you’re dead. I saw you die! Both of you.” Cassandra shifted her eyes to Dorian’s as he swung open the door to her cell. 

“More accurately, I’d say you saw us disappear, yes?” Dorian reasoned with a lift of his eyebrows. 

“We didn’t die, Cass. Alexius used his magic to hurl us forward in time. What you saw only happened maybe a half hour ago for us.”

“It’s been a year!” she shouted, and her voice echoed through the emptiness of the room. The other cells were vacant, and the unexpected lull brought forth another thought in Daena’s mind.

“Where are the guards?” Daena asked. “Dorian and I have scoured the dungeons, but we’ve met no resistance.”

“They only come down every few days to give us molded bread and water,” answered the Bull. “We are too weak to be of any threat, so they have no reason to guard us.”

“It is you,” Cassandra exclaimed, as if she had finally been struck with the realization after several moments of internal debate. She lunged forward and pulled Daena into a hug, her bony arms wrapping weakly around her back. Daena stood frozen for a moment, taken off guard by her uncharacteristic display of affection, and then wrapped her own arms around the Seeker. 

“Yes,” Daena answered, patting the woman’s back, grateful once more to find her body free of protruding rock. 

“Forgive me,” Cassandra said as she pulled away suddenly. “That was inappropriate.” She straightened as much as her fragile frame would allow and took a step back. 

Daena grinned and leaned forward to place a kiss on Cassandra’s cheek. Isabela used to provide Daena with a similar comfort at the end of a rough day, placing a friendly peck on her ruddy cheek. The effect appeared the same, as Cassandra’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. 

“Where’s my kiss?” the Bull demanded jocularly. 

“Ask Dorian.” Daena winked at both of them and turned the subject back to their current situation. “We have a plan. If Alexius is still here, and he still has his time amulet, Dorian can return us to our time. We can stop any of this from ever happening.”

“Maybe,” Dorian added. 

“It’s worth a shot,” Cassandra encouraged. 

“What _did_ happen here?“ Daena asked.

“When you died—when we _thought_ you died—the Iron Bull and I managed to escape Redcliffe. Alexius was weakened from his spell, and Leliana’s scouts had already disposed of the guards on duty, which allowed us the opportunity to return to Haven and inform the others. Commander Cullen was furious and demanded immediate retribution.” Cassandra paused to release a frustrated sigh. “I pushed for patience, for time to plan our next move carefully. But, I was outnumbered. The Commander led an attack on Redcliffe within a couple of weeks of your disappearance, using what forces he could muster at the time.”

“He did _what_?” Daena exclaimed. 

“As you can see,” Cassandra continued, gesturing to the their current surroundings. “We failed.”

“Where are he and the others now? We came across some Inquisition soldiers, but not nearly enough to sack the castle.”

“Some of us managed to retreat back to Haven. The Commander…” Cassandra’s light brown eyes slanted to the floor as she attempted to hide the sudden prickle of grief. “He did not return with us.” 

“Oh,” Daena breathed, and she felt an unexpected tug in her chest. “What about the others? Leliana, Varric, the Chargers?” Cassandra shook her head silently. “Anyone?”

“As far as I know, whoever is left in these dungeons is all that remains of the Inquisition,” she answered. “We were submitted to exposure of red lyrium. The longer you’re near it, the lyrium starts to _grow_ from you. Then the templars come to harvest it. The timetable varies from person to person, but eventually…” 

_You die_ , Daena finished internally, and shuddered. 

“Wait, templars? How are they involved in this?” Daena asked.

“There are a great many templars in the service of the Elder One,” Cassandra explained. “Where the red lyrium weakens and eventually kills most people, it gives templars unparalleled strength. I think it has something to do with the tolerance they naturally have to blue lyrium.”

Daena’s thoughts turned to Wesley, and she shivered as she envisioned shards of red crystal jutting from his every limb. His eyes were crimson and lost in what could no longer be called a face.

And then another figure appeared in her mind’s eye: a man with an absurd cloak, a commanding posture, and a head full of golden curls. 

_But Cullen is gone_. The words felt strange in her mind, as if they didn’t make sense. Cullen had survived Kinloch, Kirkwall, and the aftermath of the explosion at the Conclave. His death at the hands of a Tevinter magister, or perhaps a corrupted brother, was inconceivable. 

And, if Wesley was still among his templar brothers, he might as well be dead. 

“When the first attack failed,” the Iron Bull added, pulling Daena from her dark ruminations, “we tried again and again. There wasn’t much else to do, and without proper leadership, the Inquisition fell apart.”

“After that, the Elder One was free to reign terror in Thedas,” Cassandra explained. “He built an army of demons, he had the Empress of Orlais slaughtered to incite utter chaos throughout Thedas, and he tore open the Breach again. The Bull and I were among the last to be captured. We witnessed absolute destruction, and we couldn’t do a thing about it,” she finished, her low voice cracking in anguish.

“Well, if Dorian and I are successful, then we can stop all of this from happening in the first place,” Daena declared confidently. The others nodded in agreement. “Let’s get moving, then.”

* * *

As they emerged from the dungeons, Daena and her companions finally met the first of many waves of resistance. Daena and Dorian took down the first few enemies, giving Cassandra and the Iron Bull the opportunity to raid the bodies for swords of their own. Then, together they cut down templar after templar, each plagued with jagged red crystals that deformed their bodies and mangled their minds. The templars roared and attacked savagely, but still in some semblance of order. The way they moved, as if being directed into formations by some unseen force, reminded her of the darkspawn of the Blights she had read about before. 

Her group’s advance through the castle seemed more hopeless with each enemy that came and fell by their blades and staff. The fragile state of her companions worsened, until they met with an ally long-thought dead. 

“Leliana,” Cassandra exclaimed as they busted through the door of what appeared to be a torture chamber. Rust-colored blood crusted the iron trappings of a well-worn stretching rack and of an odd looking stool whose seat came to a sharp triangular point instead of a flat surface. The putrid stench of death assaulted Daena’s nose, and she shuddered as she imagined the horrors the room had seen. 

The spymaster herself was strung up by her wrists with heavy chains, a half-deformed templar dead, but still warm, at her feet. Fumbling for the keys from the dead man’s pockets, Cassandra helped her down, and it was then that Daena realized the full extent of Leliana’s dire condition. 

The woman stood hunched, similar to how Daena had found Cassandra and the Iron Bull, and she looked as if she’d aged at least forty years. Her skin was pale and papery thin, and the bruise-colored veins branched in a broken pattern over a canvas of sagging wrinkles. Her clothes were tattered and blood-stained, and they revealed an array of half-healed contusions along her neck and arms. Angry red-purple rings circled her wrists where the shackles had been. 

“You’re here,” Leliana wheezed in a ragged voice. “Impossible.”

Daena stepped forward and took Leliana’s hand, which was as ice cold as the water that pooled in the dungeons beneath the castle. 

“Not impossible,” Daena urged, and then explained how she and Dorian had come to be there, along with their plans to return. 

“If anything these fiends have said is accurate,” Leliana seethed bitterly, jerking her head toward the dead templar. “Alexius should be barricaded in the main hall.”

“We need to get there quickly. Do you know the way?” Daena asked. Leliana nodded.

“There are some health potions over there.” Leliana motioned to a table in the corner where a small collection of glowing tear-shaped bottles beckoned the weakest of them as an oasis beckons lost souls in the desert. “They tortured me for information on my scouts’ locations and used those to bring me back from the brink of death many times,” she added with a sigh, and then smiled ruefully. “But they never broke me.”

There were more than enough potions for everyone, and Daena insisted that Cassandra, Iron Bull, and Leliana consume at least two before moving forward. There were also more than a few rusted blades scattered about the wooden tables, and Leliana selected a pair of brutal looking serrated daggers. 

Despite the aching hunger in their bellies, the flush of vitality from the potions lifted their spirits and brought a touch of color back to their sallow skins. It also enabled them to strike down the red templars more efficiently, and they were able to move through the castle quickly. 

On their way to the main hall, Daena and Dorian glimpsed the broken world Thedas had become as they swept through an outdoor courtyard to reach another part of the castle. The sky was nearly black, save for the menacing green glow of the Breach that appeared to be significantly larger than the last time Daena had seen it. She gasped at the sight of large clusters of stone suspended in the sky above them, and felt an odd sense of deja vu, as if she had witnessed a similar sight in a dream. 

Whey they finally reached the foyer outside the main hall, after closing two sizeable rifts and killing countless demons and red lyrium templars, they found that the door would not open.

“I should have expected this,” Dorian said with a sigh. “It’s a magical lock. It can only be opened with the talisman that locked it.”

“Fucking magic,” the Iron Bull grumbled, and then proceeded to ram himself shoulder-first at the door. It didn’t move. The Iron Bull groaned, rolled his shoulder with a loud pop, and tried again. The following five attempts were as unsuccessful as the first. 

“Fucking magic, indeed,” Dorian said as his lips curled into an amused smile. 

“At least it’s locked from the outside. The talisman must be out here somewhere,” Daena speculated as she traced her fingers along the ridge of a circular imprint that decorated the door. “Is he hiding, or is he a prisoner himself, I wonder?”

“He is a spineless coward regardless,” Leliana spat indignantly. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” Daena shrugged. 

Four corridors branched from the foyer. Disregarding the one through which they had entered, Daena led her party down the second corridor on the left. As expected, more red templars stood in their way.

This time, however, their combat efforts finally proved rewarding.

“Could this be part of the talisman?” Cassandra asked as she collected a shard of red lyrium from one of the fallen templars. It was roughly triangular in shape, with two rough edges and a third that was smooth and curved. “There is some sort of writing on it.” She handed it to Dorian who reached out for a closer look. 

“Don’t!” Daena warned, pulling his hand away. “Don’t touch it. Cassandra has already been exposed to the lyrium, but you haven’t.”

“Good point,” Dorian said with a slight shiver. “For shame, my idiocy.” He leaned over the shard instead and tapped a thoughtful finger on his chin. “It is writing for sure. My guess would be Tevene, but the words are too broken up to tell just yet. Let’s see if we can find more pieces.”

After winding through the remaining three corridors, which connected like a damned maze, they found four more similar pieces of red lyrium that fit together to form a circle. 

“Perfect fit,” Daena observed as Cassandra slid the pieces into the imprint on the door. The talisman glowed brightly as the magic took effect, and the door swung open.

Alexius sat slumped in the high-backed chair that was centered on the dais at the far end of the main hall. His face was hidden by a curtain of tangled dark hair, streaked with strands of stark white. His body was turned to the side, and his left arm was perched atop another slumped figure that rested next to the chair. 

Their entrance to the main hall had not been stealthy, but Alexius remained still as Daena and the others approached. 

“Alexius!” Daena shouted. 

“I knew you would come,” Alexius said in a gravelly voice, and then lifted his head to meet her eyes. His own eyes were more deeply set than before, the dull brown points sunken into wells of darkened skin. “Not that it would be now, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you,” he added bitterly. 

The figure beside him stirred, and a pale face appeared. Flickering candlelight casted shadows over the sharp edges of bone, highlighting the hollow cheeks and deep-set orbitals. As the figure struggled to stand, the light caught the glimmer of glassy grey eyes. 

“Felix!” Dorian exclaimed. “Alexius, what have you done?!” Felix moved his lips as if to speak, but no sound came, and he leaned heavily against the arm of the chair. 

“I failed my son,” Alexius answered in a cracked voice. “The Elder One was going to help him, heal him, but I could not accomplish what he demanded of me. Felix will die, and now the Elder One comes for me, for you, for us all.”

Given her exceptionally adept stealth abilities, Leliana was able to slink into the dark edge of the room unnoticed by Alexius and reappear behind Felix with a serrated blade brandished at his throat. 

“No!” Alexius screamed and stood from his chair, more steadily than Daena would have expected. An amulet around his neck swung free of the collar of his robes. 

“Give us the time amulet, and we’ll let Felix go,” Daena offered sternly, and then added, “We can prevent this Maker-damned mess you’ve made if you help us.”

“Release my son, and you can have anything you want,” he countered desperately. 

“I want the world back,” Leliana seethed through clenched teeth, and dragged the blade slowly across Felix’s throat. Felix slumped motionless to the floor, and Daena felt Dorian flinch at her side. 

“No!” Alexius shouted again. The utter defeat that had been set in his bones melted away as he exploded in a bright surge of magic. Several arcs of lightning branched from him and struck out at the others. Dorian erected a barrier just in time to take the brunt of the attack, but Leliana was caught outside of his range. A bright bolt connected, stunning her, and she fell to the floor. 

Daena and Cassandra lunged forward as Alexius moved in to finish off Leliana. Daena sliced her blades in a cross formation into Alexius’ back and he turned, arching in agony. He retaliated with a strong force push just as Cassandra swung her sword toward his middle, sending both women flying backward. 

They collided with the stone floor at Dorian’s feet as he aimed his staff to shoot a hot stream of fire at Alexius. The flame was deflected, but it served as a distraction for the Iron Bull to charge the magister clean off the dais. 

Alexius, now flat on his back, groaned and grunted as the Iron Bull kicked him hard in his gut. The Iron Bull swung his heavy sword down, and Alexius force pushed him away, sending the great mass of muscle flying as easily as Daena and Cassandra had. 

In his brief moment of respite, Alexius gripped the amulet around his neck in his fingers and tore open a rift in the middle of the hall. A bright green flash blinded them temporarily, giving Alexius the chance to make a run for the door. The onslaught of demons that poured out prevented their pursuit. 

Daena and the others worked to close it. The rift was similar to the one she had encountered when she first met Dorian. Various pockets of space around the rift warped time and offered the benefit of a speedy victory. When the last demon was slain and the rift snapped shut with a clench of her fist, Daena sensed a sharp tang of iron in the air and turned to the direction of Alexius’ retreat.

Alexius’ body was sprawled on the floor, bloody and broken in the doorway. A gaping hole the size of a large fist pierced his abdomen down to the spine, and a glob of tangled innards were spilled out onto the floor. Daena’s eyes shifted to the pair of feet that stood next to Alexius, followed the armored legs up to the broad chest that was shielded by red lyrium, and ended on a mess of unruly golden curls. 

“Cullen?” Daena breathed, eyes wide. 

Her dark imagination couldn’t hold a candle to the image of the man— _or monster_ —she saw before her. His honey colored eyes were red as blood and glowing almost as brightly as the lyrium. The branching veins in his face and along his neck were dark against his pale skin, and the scar above his lip was more exaggerated, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent snarl. The ridiculous cloak was gone. The everite armor marked with the Inquisition’s all-seeing eye remained, but it had been adapted into something sinister. Red lyrium protruded from the center of the breastplate and along his rerebraces, but it was unclear whether or not the lyrium was rooted deep in his skin beneath. 

Cullen did not resemble any of the other red templars. Where they had been wild and deformed beasts, Cullen was a dark and angry mutation of himself.

Daena felt Cassandra grip her upper arm and she turned to her. Cassandra’s face was dark with grief, but it distinctly lacked the wide-eyed bewilderment that was surely on her own.

“You told me he was dead,” Daena said. 

“I said he didn’t return.” Cassandra took a breath and sighed. “I _hoped_ he was dead. Death would be preferable to this.”

“We need to get the amulet,” Dorian muttered urgently at Daena’s ear, the sudden brush of breath making her jump slightly. Daena nodded slightly in acknowledgement. 

Cullen’s snarl expanded into what might have been a smirk as he stepped over Alexius’ body and moved toward Daena. His right hand, gauntleted and coated in thick red blood, reached for the sword at his hip. Daena gripped the hilts of her blades more tightly as she braced herself for a battle she wasn’t confident she could win. 

“Cullen, this isn’t you!” Daena exclaimed in a shaky voice. Cullen continued his steady, predatory stalk toward her and she huffed in frustration. “It’s me, Daena, you bloody bastard! We’ve known each other for years!”

Cullen did pause momentarily at that, something familiar flashing in his lyrium-addled eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and he moved forward with renewed determination. 

From the shadows, Leliana appeared behind Cullen, just as she had with Felix, but Cullen had already sensed her. He turned and gripped Leliana by the throat, the blade she had wielded clanging to the ground. 

“You and Dorian get the fuck out of here,” the Iron Bull said gravely. His eyes flickered to Cassandra’s and they both nodded silently. “We’ll take care of Cullen.”

Daena’s heart lurched in horror as she watched her companions charge toward the monster that had once been Cullen. The Iron Bull gripped him by the back of his neck, causing him to release his hold on Leliana, who fell to the ground gasping for air, and threw him far across the room away from the amulet. Daena’s feet were firmly planted to the stone floor, and Dorian had to shout at her as he dragged her by the arm to Alexius’ bloody form.

Dorian crouched down and tore the amulet from his neck quickly, but Daena could see the hesitation in his eyes.

“If I had an hour, I could be certain to do the spell properly,” Dorian said as he clutched the amulet in a tight fist. 

A blood-chilling roar echoed ominously from somewhere outside the castle and shook the ground like a quake. The Elder One, whatever he might be, was closing in. Daena looked over her shoulder at the scene playing out at the far side of the hall, just in time to see Cullen plunge and twist his sword through the Iron Bull’s gut. Cassandra was already a bloody heap on the floor, and Leliana’s throat was once again in the vice grip of a monster’s left hand. 

“We don’t have two minutes!” Daena shouted as she turned her wide eyes back to Dorian. She heard the final crack as Cullen snapped Leliana’s neck, and her blood ran cold. “Do it now!”

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut and frantically whispered several words in Tevene. Daena could feel Cullen’s red glare at her back and knew he was closing in. The atmosphere shifted as time distorted around them, and she feared they would be stuck in one of the slower pockets of time as Cullen quickly approached. 

Daena gripped Dorian’s forearm and dared one last glance over her shoulder. Cullen was only a few yards away, and his eyes glowed menacingly as his lips split into a vicious grin. 

“Dorian!” Daena screamed, but the mage was already tugging her through time. The horrific scene before her faded from vision, but remained imprinted in her mind. 

The world tumbled, and her equilibrium spiraled as she and Dorian rolled down a set of stone steps. She heard familiar voices and felt a pair of hands help her to her feet. As the spinning behind her eyes subsided, she found herself at the bottom of the steps to the dais in the main hall. Cassandra had her by the shoulders, the Iron Bull supported an equally dazed Dorian, and Alexius stood bewildered next to his son, the amulet clutched in his hand. 

Daena lunged for Alexius in a blind rage and tackled him, her blades clanging forgotten on the ground. Her legs straddled his chest as she pounded her fists mercilessly into his face, giving him no chance to focus on casting another spell. He cried for mercy, but the blood rushing in her ears drowned it out. Flashes of the broken future he helped facilitate flickered through her mind, and she felt an angry, warm buzz of magic collecting in her clenched fists. She didn’t bother to smother it, and sparks of electricity rained down over Alexius’ prone body beneath her. 

Words escaped her in the form of a feral growl as she prepared to roast the man alive, but a searing hot pain flooded her entire body as hands, cold in contrast to the fire in her blood, dragged her off of Alexius. The sparks died out and her vision tunneled momentarily. The weakness that followed was reminiscent of a smite, but the preceding effect was far worse. 

“Daena,” Cassandra said, pressing her hands firmly against both sides of Daena’s face as she peered into her hazy green eyes. “Calm yourself.” She had little choice in the matter. The smite—or whatever it was—had drained most of the energy from her. The anger still burned deep within, but Daena could not access it. 

Cassandra helped her to her feet again, and Daena saw Dorian bent over Alexius, his lips moving silently. The magister appeared to still be breathing— _damn him_ —but his face was well-bloodied. 

“Can you carry him, Bull?” Cassandra asked, assuming control of the situation. He nodded and moved to Alexius’ side to collect him. “We’ll need to take him back to Haven for questioning. As for the mages—”

The door to the main hall busted open and two lines of well-armored knights marched in, a rhythmic clang echoing off the stone walls with each synchronized step. The Royal Guard, followed by a fair-haired woman laden in billowing pink and gold silk, took a rigid position in front of the only exit. 

“Queen Anora,” Cassandra greeted cordially, though her hand on Daena’s arm tightened.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Queen demanded. “I offer Redcliffe as a sanctuary to mages, and I learn that Bann Teagan has been run off of his own land while Tevinter takes over?”

“As I understand it, your Grace, Tevinter arrived shortly after the events of the Conclave and took advantage of the hostilities against the mages, offering them protection,” Cassandra answered neutrally. “The situation has been dealt with, however.”

“It matters little now. I revoke my offer of sanctuary. Guards, see to it that every mage is ejected from this city immediately.”

“No,” Daena said hoarsely, and attempted to stand a bit straighter. “The Inquisition will escort the mages to Haven. We need them to close the Breach, and unless you have any better ideas on how to do that, I suggest you let us leave with them.” 

Anora met Daena’s narrowed eyes and pondered for a moment. 

“You’re the Herald, I take it.” Daena gave her a short nod. “Very well. The mages are your responsibility now, but mind them well. They are more dangerous than I realized. As for the Tevinters—”

“Alexius is a prisoner of the Inquisition and will be detained in Haven. His son will return to Tevinter,” Daena replied firmly, giving no room for negotiation. Anora tilted her head in hesitant approval. 

“You and the mages have until first light tomorrow to be clear of this city,” Anora advised, her pointed eyes narrowing to slits. “The mages may never return.”

“Understood, your Grace,” Cassandra replied, in lieu of any potentially snide remarks Daena had at the tip of her tongue. 

After Anora and the Guard filed noisily out of the room, Daena blew out a heavy sigh.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	21. Dying Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I logged into my account today, ready to delete this story for good. Instead, I decided to post a new chapter. I know it's been over a year. If there is anyone left reading this story, I am truly sorry for the wait. 
> 
> There are more chapters in the works. I wish I could promise regular updates, but that would be a lie. For now, all I can say is that I haven't given up on this story yet. And I hope there are at least a few people out there who haven't given up on reading it.

The Inquisition’s caravan was halfway to Haven, and Daena had hardly slept. The events of the future she had seen were still fresh in her mind, even as certain images she desperately wanted to erase began to fade. Though the images would likely never leave her completely, she had reached a point where she only saw blood and the taint of red lyrium when she closed her eyes. 

In lieu of sleep, she spent her evenings staring intently at the shimmering display of stars above her, connecting the twinkling dots to form pictures and stories. She could easily lose herself to the world above if it wasn’t for the solid presence of the ground against her back or the steady hum of mingled voices in the camp. She laid sprawled some distance from the nearest campfire, her tangled curls sweeping through the dirt with every brush of wind. 

Daena was content to remain unmoving, to melt into the earth until she disintegrated and blew away with the next gust of wind. It wasn’t death she craved, but liberation. She coveted the life she had before the Inquisition, before the unbearable responsibility for the people within it. Before the cursed mark had tied her to those responsibilities. Daena squeezed her eyes shut, and clenched her marked fist until her nails dug deeply into the skin of her palm.

“Do you intend to sulk in the dark all evening?” a smooth voice quipped. Daena peeked one eye open to find a man in robes, silhouetted by the campfire somewhere behind him. 

“Who says I’m sulking? I could have just as easily been sleeping, and you just woke me. Arsehole.”

“If that’s you sleeping, I’d hate to see how you look straining over a chamber pot,” Dorian chuckled. Daena slapped the back of her hand against his shin, and he squatted near the ground, careful to minimize the exposure of his fine silks to the dirt. “Have you tried the soup yet? It tastes positively gray. Truly, you southerners are masters of cuisine. How do you manage to take all the flavor and texture out of your food?”

“It’s Ferelden tradition, passed down through generations,” Daena replied with an exaggerated wave of her hand and sat up, brushing the dirt out of her hair. “Did Cassandra send you?”

“I don’t recall the Seeker giving me orders now, or ever. How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’m not oozing sunshine and rainbows, but I suspect you aren’t either.” Daena felt her cheeks flush as she touched on a sensitive subject. “How is Alexius?”

Dorian had quickly adopted the role as Alexius’ caretaker. He had little knowledge of spiritual magic beyond basic healing spells, but he had taken to supervising the magister’s treatment by the other mages. 

“His face resembles a bowl of mashed snowberries, but he’ll live.” Dorian tilted his head and tapped a finger on his chin thoughtfully. “I didn’t mark you as a brawler when we met.”

“I’m not,” she chuckled. “If anything, I’m a duelist.”

“Not a mage?” he asked pointedly. 

“I have the ability, but choose not to use it,” she answered carefully. “Dorian, what happened in Redcliffe, I didn’t mean to...It was—” Dorian lifted his hand to silence her.

“There is no need to explain. Alexius earned every bruise and cut you gave him. I was merely curious.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I’m even more curious to actually see your magic. I’d imagine it would be quite the show, given what I felt of it before Cassandra snuffed it out.”

Daena squirmed uneasily, both at the reminder of the Seeker’s counter-measure and at the thought of releasing her magic, something she hadn’t done consciously in years.

“Perhaps I will have some soup,” Daena declared, even as her stomach protested. But, she’d gladly slurp down a bowl of disgusting sludge if it meant leaving behind the subject of her magic. 

Dorian stood to his full height and offered his hand to her. She took it and pulled herself up, brushing more dirt from the back of her leather trousers. Another figure appeared behind Dorian before Daena could escape to the soup kettle. 

“Herald, could I have a word with you?” Cassandra glanced at Dorian, who had turned his head with a quirked eyebrow. “Alone,” she specified firmly. 

“You ladies and your secrets,” Dorian scoffed lightheartedly, but left the women alone. 

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Cassandra explained once Dorian was out of earshot. “And I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“The cleanse. I know how harsh it can be, and it must have hurt you greatly.” Cassandra’s eyes slanted toward the ground as her eyebrows knitted together. 

“You don’t have to apologize for cleansing me, Cass. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I know it had to be done.” Daena flexed her fingers, recalling the warm sensation of sparking magic at the tips and the hot flood of fire that filled her veins afterward.

“I’m not sorry for doing it,” Cassandra clarified. “I regret that I had to do it. I would do it again if the situation called for it, but I would not revel in it. Do you take my meaning?”

“Of course.”

“If I may ask, what drove you to use your magic? In all the months we’ve fought beside each other, you have never used it.”

“You read the missive I wrote, before it was sent to Haven?” Cassandra nodded. “The future that Dorian and I saw was beyond horrific. The report could not possibly do it justice, even if I had given every detail.” Daena lowered her voice. “Which I didn’t. The Elder One destroyed the Inquisition in more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know that you and many others were captured and imprisoned, and Leliana was tortured. The Commander…” Daena took a deep breath. “He became a tool of the Elder One. Like the red templars I mentioned, Cullen was twisted by red lyrium. But, it was so much worse than that, in a way I cannot adequately describe.” Daena fought a shiver at the memory of his sinister expression.

“You’re sure it was him?” she asked, her brows knitted over downturned eyes. The Seeker seemed just as horrified as Daena had felt, but something darker shaded her expression.

“Yes.”

“We should report this, to prevent the possibility of this happening,” Cassandra said insistently.

“No. I left it out of the report for a reason. I think it’s best he never knows what he became. _Could_ become. The last thing he needs is to imagine the devastation he is capable of.” 

_He’s seen enough horrors already_ , Daena thought, the events of Kinloch and the desolation of Kirkwall coming to mind. 

After a moment, Cassandra nodded reluctantly in agreement. The shadow on her face cleared and was replaced with a glimmer of steely determination. 

“The Commander will not hear of it from me,” she promised.

“Thank you, Cass.” The tightness in Daena’s chest that she had felt since she had returned from the future eased somewhat. Sharing the burden of this knowledge was a greater relief than Daena had imagined it could be. Dorian knew, but he wasn’t close with Cullen as Cassandra was. He couldn’t possibly understand the full extent of corruption the Elder One had inflicted on Cullen.

“And while we’re on the subject of what _not_ to tell the advisors, I was hoping—”

“I’ve already addressed the issue with Dorian and the Iron Bull. They are not to speak of the _incident_ involving Alexius to anyone, beyond what is necessary to know.”

“Really? Just like that?” Daena narrowed her eyes incredulously.

“You have proven yourself in the field on many occasions. You are a strong and resilient woman who simply made a mistake. I fear that certain parties—”

“Cullen,” Daena clarified with a nod. 

“Yes. He has only heard of the good you have accomplished. He hasn’t seen it for himself, and I fear this incident may overshadow that.”

“He would flip the fuck out,” she agreed, and Cassandra nodded. “So, you think I’m strong and resilient?” Daena gave the Seeker a smug grin and waggled her eyebrows. “You’re sure you don’t have an eye for me, Seeker?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes in time with a muttered _ugh_ , and Daena laughed for the first time in days.

* * *

The remaining days on the road passed easier than the first few, but Daena still found little sleep. When the caravan from Redcliffe finally arrived in Haven, Daena and Cassandra were summoned to the War Room without so much as a moment to rest their weary bodies. 

“Was the missive we sent ahead not enough of a report?” Daena grumbled tiredly as they entered the Chantry. 

“You know it was not,” Cassandra answered in an equally sleepy tone. “The advisors will want details, and a plan for closing the Breach will need to be established.”

Resigned to their fate for the next hour at least, Daena and Cassandra continued their tired trudge to the War Room to meet with the advisors.

The debriefing was little more than an expansion on the information included in the report. Beyond the account of the Elder One’s plans to kill the Orlesian Empress, raise a demon army, and tear open the Breach, Daena had little to offer in the way of detail aside from, “Future-Cassandra told me so.”

“What of the mages?” Cullen asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through iron. “You have brought them to the Inquisition as allies and given them free reign of the village. Is that wise, considering the threat they pose being so close to the Breach?” 

His pointed inquiry drew Daena’s attention, and she looked at him directly for the first time since she had entered the room. His eyes were dark, as was the skin that pillowed beneath them, and his slightly pale face bore a sheen of sweat from temple to temple. She wondered briefly if the tea she had recommended had lost its effectiveness, or if he’d simply stopped drinking it all together. 

“Are you asking why I did not bring the mages to the Inquisition as prisoners?” Daena suggested coolly. She had expected this reaction from him and had previously decided not to be lured into a shouting match. He would argue that the mages needed a trained and watchful eye, and she would counter with every reason why that would be a terrible idea. They would go back and forth until they were red in the face, neither budging from their own stance, and nothing productive would come of it.

Cullen shook his head. “I didn’t mean—”

“How many trained templars have joined the Inquisition so far, Commander?” Daena asked, deciding to approach the subject with pure rationality. 

“Several, and they are more than capable of carrying out their duties just as they did in the Circles.”

“Several,” she echoed. “Eight or ten, perhaps?”

“No less than twenty, at least,” he corrected. 

“Ok, we’ll say twenty. Cassandra, how many mages returned with us from Redcliffe?”

“By my count, two hundred and fifty-three, including younger, un-harrowed mages,” the Seeker answered confidently. 

“That brings the ratio to one templar for every twelve or thirteen mages, at all times. Does that sound feasible to you, Commander?” 

“Of course,” he scoffed. “A well-trained templar’s counterspells are designed to blanket a large area, encompassing any number of mages.” Daena was keenly aware that Cullen avoided grouping in himself when speaking of the templars.

“Maybe so,” she conceded. “Assuming they work in eight-hour rotations, that would leave six or seven templars to watch over two hundred and fifty mages at a time. Do you intend to keep the mages all in one place, Commander?”

“We could designate an area—”

“How would you ensure they stay in that area? Would they be put under lock and key?” she asked calmly, though her pulse began to beat like a drum in her ears. 

“No,” he answered. Daena kept her expression neutral, but she felt some of the tension ease out of her. “That shouldn’t be necessary, and even with the cells in the Chantry’s basement, it wouldn’t be feasible.”

“Of course,” she said flatly. “My point is, Commander, is that the mages from Redcliffe managed themselves just fine for months after the Conclave.” At the incredulous lift of Cullen’s brow, she added, “Yes, they bargained with Tevinter. That was poor judgement on their part, but what choice did they have? Templars were ordered to purge the mages, and no one else stood up to protect them.”

“You think the mages will manage themselves just as well here, directly under the Breach?” Cullen countered. “A group of mages this large and this close to a tear in the Veil is likely a beacon to the demons on the other side.”

“The same could have been said in Redcliffe, with the mess of rifts Alexius tore open, but the mages proved vigilant.” 

Cullen opened his mouth to rebut, and paused. After snapping his mouth shut, he narrowed his eyes and turned to the other advisors.

“Care to add anything?” he asked.

“I must agree with the Herald in this matter,” Leliana stated simply. “While I understand your concern of their proximity to the Breach, I have confidence the mages will be able to handle themselves, as they have thus far.”

“The Herald has already offered the mages an alliance. To go back on her word, to conscript them as _charges_ of the Inquisition instead, would undermine the honorable reputation we are trying to uphold,” Josephine explained tentatively.

Cullen huffed and passed his irritated glance over Daena to the Seeker that stood at her side. 

“Cassandra, surely you see the danger in this,” he pleaded. “The mages must be monitored to prevent a cataclysm.”

“While I did not initially agree with Daena’s decision, I must admit that it is quite sound,” Cassandra answered pragmatically. 

It took a moment for Daena to register the sound of her own name. By the looks of Leliana’s wide-eyed stare, she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Daena hid a small smile of appreciation as the Seeker continued. 

“Treating them as equal members of the Inquisition is more likely to ensure their cooperation with us. We cannot close the Breach without them. I also expect that any attempt by the templars to monitor them after everything that has happened would do more harm than good.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.

“A compromise,” Daena suggested, if only to keep Cullen’s head from popping off his shoulders. “The templars are not to patrol the mages as if they are still part of the Circle. For all intents and purposes, the mages will be treated as equal members of the Inquisition, and will not be subjected to any form of oppression by the templars.

“However, should an abomination surface among the mages, your templars are free to deal with it as they were trained. But only the abomination,” Daena stressed. “The other mages are not to be judged or punished for the mistakes of one of their own.”

“Forgive me, Herald,” Cullen said, his voice strained. “But that would be counterintuitive. Waiting for the inevitable instead of being proactive would put other lives at risk.” 

“If a mage succumbs to the temptations of a demon, it will happen whether or not your templars are breathing down that mage’s neck,” she snapped. “I will not stand here and assume that every mage out there is an abomination waiting to happen. This isn’t Kinloch, and it sure as fuck isn’t Kirkwall!”

A ringing silence followed her declaration, and Cullen stared wide-eyed. A moment later, Josephine broke the stillness with a scratch of her quill on parchment, and Cullen nodded slowly. His face softened as the ire left him, and a tendril of guilt curled in the pit of her stomach. Daena had brought to mind two moments in his life she was sure he’d rather forget, and while it seemed to have the desired effect of altering his perspective, she had no desire to revel in her success. 

“Then we are in agreement,” Daena stated carefully. “The mages are allies and will be treated as such.”

“Agreed,” Cullen conceded without so much as a sigh.

“On to the Breach then. Cassandra?” 

The Seeker laid out her plan for approaching—and hopefully closing—the Breach. She, mercifully, suggested the event be postponed for two days, to allow for Daena and the mages to rest. Daena would then attempt to close the Breach as before, using the channeled power of the mages. With such limited knowledge on the nature of the Breach, there was little more that could be done to prepare. 

“How are our lyrium stores?” Cassandra asked.

“We have enough stockpiled for the mages to use in their assistance to the Herald,” Josephine explained after reviewing her ledgers. “Beyond that, however, we will need to establish a regular supply line.”

“I know just the person who can help with that,” Daena offered with a soft smile. “I’ve been meaning to write her anyway.”

“Her?” Leliana arched her brow inquisitively. 

“A close friend. Unless her inclinations have changed since last I saw her, she should have no problem getting us what we need.”

“Is this connection credible?” Cullen asked pointedly.

“Does it matter?” Daena countered. “The Inquisition needs lyrium. Credible or not, my friend is reliable.” She turned her attention to Josephine. “Her services aren’t cheap, but I’m sure we can work something out.” And then to Leliana, “I’ll write a few copies of the letter, if you would send them to the ports she is known to harbor. It will be the quickest way to reach her, since I have no idea where she is at this exact moment.”

“No, I don’t suspect she’s credible at all,” Cullen mumbled as he dragged a hand down his weary face. 

“Meeting over?” Daena asked, and then decided that it was. “Great. Leliana, I’ll have those letters for you tomorrow.” With one last glance at the sullen-faced Commander, she made her retreat from the War Room.

Dorian was waiting for her just outside the door, and he linked his arm through hers as he matched her pace without missing a step. 

“So, I see that you’re still in possession of your head and other appendages,” Dorian said conversationally. “I take it your meeting went well?”

“It went about how I expected,” Daena answered, the corner of her mouth tilting upward. “I had to fight the Commander over what to do with the mages, but I got my way.” Her grin widened. 

“Thank the Maker for that,” Dorian praised. 

“Thank _me_ for that. The Maker wasn’t there to stand against an ex-templar’s convictions. It was no easy feat. Not that I had any fear of failure, mind you,” she boasted. 

Dorian chuckled and patted her arm. 

“I suspect the Commander is unaware of certain things we encountered in the future?” Dorian asked carefully. 

“You would be correct,” Daena answered under her breath, her eyes scanning the Chantry for any curious ears tilting their way. “And I expect you to keep your mouth shut,” she added with a pinch of his forearm.

“Ouch! Was that entirely necessary?” Dorian rubbed at his arm with his free hand. “I wasn’t planning on saying anything. I was just curious.”

“Why so curious?”

Dorian glanced at her with a sideways grin and waggled his eyebrows, but didn’t answer. 

“Careful, Dorian. It seems your face has been bewitched,” she said dryly. He dropped his brow and huffed. They were outside the front of the Chantry when he pulled her to a stop.

“It’s clear you care for the man,” he stated bluntly. “I assume that’s why you didn’t tell him.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” she asked, her eyes wide. 

“Are you and the Commander not involved?”

“Fuck no, why would you think that?” Daena struggled to keep eye contact with Dorian, her eyes intent on seeking an escape from the conversation. 

“Oh, good. So he’s available then?” Dorian teased, neglecting her inquiry. Daena paused for the space of a breath before laughter rumbled deep in her chest. Dorian winked and spun on his heel back toward the Chantry. 

“Dorian, wait,” she called, and reached for him. The sight of Cullen emerging from the Chantry halted her steps and her hiccuping giggles. His eyes met hers for a brief moment before being drawn to the suave Tevinter that approached him. 

“Dorian,” she growled under her breath. Dorian greeted Cullen with a respectful nod. She was too far away to hear anything that was being said, but after a brief exchange, Cullen’s eyes met hers again. She failed to douse the heat that reddened her face. Daena was certain the Tevinter was inquiring the same thing of him that he had of her, and she was also certain she would kill him for it. 

With a short nod, Cullen took his leave toward the training camp. She noted he took the less direct route to the left, the opposite direction to where she was standing. 

“Maker’s hairy balls, Dorian,” Daena groaned when he returned to her side. “What did you say to him?”

“What a filthy mouth you have, my lady Herald,” he responded with a sly grin. 

“What did you _say_?”

“Oh, don’t get your smalls in a knot. I simply told him that I would be delighted to stay on with the Inquisition for the time being. He was cordial, but I sensed he wasn’t keen on the idea.”

“So you’re staying?” Daena asked, her lips tugging into a smile. 

“You’re not rid of me just yet. Is your Commander always so brooding?”

“Most of the time,” she chuckled. 

Dorian attempted to lure Daena to the tavern for a drink, but the overwhelming exhaustion made her reluctantly decline. 

“Get some rest,” Dorian urged as he dropped her off at her cabin. “And for the record,” he added as she went to close the door. “Your Commander is all but available.”

“What?”

“Get some rest,” he shouted again over his shoulder as he made his retreat to the tavern, leaving Daena standing dumbfounded in the doorway of her cabin.

“Rest,” she sighed, finally clicking the door shut. She kicked off her boots, quickly changed into a loose sleeping gown, and collapsed on the bed with a huff. 

It was her first opportunity for a full night’s rest, and she willingly succumbed to the Fade. Time disappeared, and in what felt like the next moment, she woke screaming into the dark. 

* * *

The nightmare began as any other dream. They always had. The setting of the nightmares was generally different, but the atmosphere was always the same: joy, contentment, love. It made the sudden dark shift all the more terrifying. 

The Inquisition was the focus of the first nightmare she had had in years. More specifically, it was the people of the Inquisition. The Breach had been closed, and the village was celebrating. Some people drank merrily while others danced to the bard’s victory tune. Most were attempting to do both, and Daena shook with mirth. 

Her advisors took part in the celebration as well. Josephine and Leliana were giggling and sloshing goblets of wine as they talked animatedly about something. Cassandra sat a short distance from them, pretending to be indifferent to their gossip, but a rare smile tugged at her lips, betraying her interest. 

Daena’s eyes scanned the crowd in search of the Commander. She found him standing some distance away, her view miraculously unobstructed by the throng of drunks that swayed back and forth like the waves of the sea. He was staring at her. Or, perhaps more appropriately, he was _gazing_ at her, his eyes soft and his features smoothed of all lines that habitually stressed his face. The serenity that seemed to emanate from him reached her through the crowd, and a smile touched her lips. 

Then the darkness came, as it always did. A shadow passed over Haven, but no one seemed to notice except Daena and Cullen. Cullen didn’t so much notice it as he was affected by it. His hand flew to his temple, as if struck with a migraine, and he hunched forward until his knees collided with the ground. 

Panic seized her, and Daena broke out in a run. She shouted his name, but her voice was lost to the roar of the music and the crowd. Before she’d covered half the distance between them, Cullen stood from his crumpled position, and she skidded to a halt. 

The darkness that had skirted the edges of her vision closed in until all she could see was Cullen. His eyes glowed crimson, shining malevolently against the blackness that surrounded them, and his skin cracked to reveal more of the sinister red light. A snarl twisted his mouth as he stepped forward in a determined stride.

Pain stabbed at the palm of her marked hand, and green lightning spread through her body before exploding outward in a violent shock wave. The buzz of magic that filled her was more intense than ever before, and the heat of it scalded her skin. Daena focused her will on dousing the fire and reigning in her magic, but as with every nightmare, she had lost control of it. 

The lightning crackled and burned until her previously untapped reserves fizzled out. Daena collapsed and gagged as the putrid smell of burning flesh assaulted her nose. The shadow that had blanketed her surroundings was chased away by the thick smoke that rose from several piles of charred bodies. Daena’s eyes blurred as she scanned the desolate landscape, and she blinked away the tears. Several feet in front of her, separate from the mass of what had been the crowd, a large pile of ash glowed like the dying embers of a fire.

A scream that ripped through Daena’s throat finally pulled her from the Fade. She woke so violently, she tumbled from the bed and landed on the floor with a thud. Rolling onto her back, she clutched at her heaving chest with trembling hands. It was too dark to see the scorch marks she knew would be on her bedding, her clothing, and her arms. The exhaustion she recognized as a depletion of mana was so complete that her limbs felt heavy. 

A knock came at her door, and Daena flinched. _Shit_. 

With great effort, Daena rolled over and pushed herself off the ground. Her head floated as if filled with air, and she had to lean against the bed to keep from falling. 

“Just a minute,” she shouted with a ravaged throat as a frantic second knock rapped the door. Careful to keep her clothes and arms hidden, she cracked open the door to find a lone soldier on her doorstep. 

“Is there trouble, Lady Herald?” he asked. “I thought I saw something flashing, and I heard screaming.”

“Nothing to worry about, ser. Just a nightmare.” Daena bit back a hysterical cackle. _Just a nightmare_. 

“Is there something I can get for you? Some tea or warm milk, perhaps?”

“I’ll be fine,” she answered, shaking her head. “Thank you.” She closed the door before he could push further assistance. A surge of murmurs drew her attention to the window, and she found that a small group of people had gathered near her cabin. Their faces were just visible in the light of several candles and torches. Many of them were looking to the soldier that had knocked on her door, undoubtedly concerned for the safety of their Herald. 

“Fuck,” she sighed. 

Daena didn’t dare to try and sleep again. She longed for some fresh air, but until the people of Haven returned to their beds, she was confined to her cabin. Feeling her way through the dark room, she managed to light the candle at her bedside. The full extent of her outburst was finally visible, and she shuddered at the sight of the black scorch marks that stained her linens, her bed clothes, and the walls. It was sheer luck that she hadn’t burned down the cabin in the heat of her nightmare.

She carried the candle to her writing desk and pulled out a few sheets of parchment with a quill and some ink. It had been months since Daena had seen her friend, and she remembered with a pang of guilt that she had promised to write Isabela much sooner. 

After several drafts, resulting in a pile of crumpled parchment on the floor, Daena finally completed and signed the message. She laid it to the side and proceeded to write several more copies.

> _Izzy,_

> _I’m sending a copy of this letter to every port we’ve ever harbored. I hope one of them finds its way to you soon. I’m sorry I haven’t written before now, but so much has happened. I’d write it here if I thought you’d believe it. You’ll just have to come and see for yourself._

> _I’m with the Inquisition in Haven, a village near where the Conclave took place. Do you remember?_

> _I’ve got a job for you._

> _Love,  
>  D_


	22. Shades of Dawn

Shortly before dawn, Daena threw the ruined linens into a lit fireplace and used her wash basin to scrub the scorch marks from her arms. She dressed and tucked the neat stack of letters she had written into the pocket of a woolen cloak that had recently been commissioned for her wardrobe. She decided a quiet walk and some fresh air would help to ease her nerves. Pulling the hood up over her auburn curls, Daena made her way toward the lake at the edge of the village. 

Other than the few men standing guard, Haven felt deserted. The windows of the other cabins were dark, the few tents that still lined the pathways were quiet, and the constant clang of the smithy’s forge was absent. The only sign of life was the flicker of candlelight shining through the flaps of the Commander’s tent.

As Daena passed by the tent to walk the remaining yards to the edge of the lake, she briefly wondered if Cullen ever slept.

The water was not yet frozen, but would be soon if the chilly wind that stung her cheeks was any indication. The surface of the lake rippled and shimmered green from the Breach that hung in the sky as a constant reminder of her current situation. 

_Why me?_ The question repeatedly swirled through her head. It was a question Daena had yet to find the answer to, and she was beginning to think she never would.

As the last remnants of night slipped away, the sickly green of the Breach was momentarily washed out by the brilliant reds and golds of dawn. If she stared directly at the water, ignoring the shore and surrounding area around the lake, she could almost imagine she was at sea. She began to sway slightly, as if the ground beneath her was rocking with the waves. But, the illusion wasn’t perfect. The breeze was not strong enough, or even remotely warm. There was no spray of sea dampening her face, nor salt clinging to her lips. There was no constant creak of wooden planks beneath busy feet. 

The illusion dissolved when the mark on her hand began to tingle. She looked up as the sun cleared the horizon, and the oppressive green tint of the Breach enveloped her once more. She sighed and, resigned to her fate, went in search of Leliana to have her letters sent.

Cullen emerged as she passed his tent, and she met his eyes without thinking. The nightmare that had kept her from further sleep came rushing back, and she couldn't help but do a once over of his person, just to make sure he was still him.

Although his eyes were sunken into dark circles, and the ever present lines of weariness were etched into his face, she could tell that he was. It must have been a long night for the Commander because he barely managed a nod as he passed by her toward the rest of the training camp. Daena tilted her head in return and watched as he began to rouse the sleepy soldiers that had failed to rise with the dawn. 

Daena continued on her way toward Leliana’s tent near the Chantry. The village was gradually coming to life, the chattering hum growing in tandem with the sun’s ascent in the sky. The Spymaster was already awake and working, as Daena expected her to be. 

“Here are the letters,” Daena said after they exchanged morning greetings. “Each is marked with the port and ship they are intended for.”

“ _Siren’s Call_?” Leliana asked as she examined the script on the outside of the topmost letter. “Does your contact happen to be Rivaini?”

“You know Isabela?”

“You could say that,” Leliana answered with the slightest curl of a smile. “We’ve crossed paths before. How do you know her?”

“We’ve crossed paths,” Daena echoed. “Can your scouts deliver the letters?”

“Of course, Herald.” Leliana’s face smoothed as she scribbled a note to go along with the letters. “It seems there was a bit of a commotion near your cabin last night.” Daena froze. “Is everything alright?”

“You don’t miss a thing, do you Leliana?” The Spymaster simply smiled, and something akin to mischief gleamed in her eyes. “A bit of restless sleep,” Daena offered as an explanation, her voice shaking only slightly. “I had a bad dream and must have made some noise. Nothing to worry about.”

“Of course.” Leliana bowed her head slightly. “Let me know if there is anything you need.”

“Thank you.” Daena retreated from the Spymaster’s tent quicker than was necessary and released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Delivering the letters was Daena’s only obligation for the day, given she was supposed to be resting in preparation for the assault on the Breach. As exhausted as she was, Daena refused to consider sleep, fearing more nightmares. Being the highly-respected figure she was now, drinking herself into oblivion for all the village to see was no longer an option. Instead, she sought out the only other remedy that had helped with her predicament in the past. 

“Are you sure this is wise?” Cassandra asked incredulously when Daena approached her as a sparring partner. “You should be reserving your strength. We don’t know what will happen when—”

“All the more reason for me to be training. You wouldn’t want me assaulting the Breach unprepared, would you?” The Seeker sighed and shook her head. “Come on, Cass. I’m bored,” Daena whined. 

“Fine,” she groaned. “But we take it slow and easy. We don’t need you worn out before the Breach.”

Daena followed Cassandra’s lead at first, but slow and easy would not suit her ultimate purpose. Cassandra protested Daena’s voracity and found herself repeatedly defeated, with killing blows poised at her throat, back, and gut. 

“It doesn’t seem like you need the practice,” Cassandra said dryly. 

“You’re just not trying very hard,” Daena huffed in annoyance. “I need to find someone who will.” Daena sheathed her daggers and stalked away through the training field. A quick glance toward the Commander’s tent confirmed her suspicions that Cullen had been observing their sparring session. He snapped his attentions back to his recruits with a barked instruction to mask the flush of embarrassment of being caught. Daena considered Cullen as her next partner, but quickly dispelled the thought. She wasn’t quite ready to face him over blades again so soon. 

The Iron Bull proved to be a worthy partner, as did many of his Chargers after some careful persuasion. Daena spent the rest of the day switching between partners, sometimes utilizing more than one at a time, and pushed herself hard enough to be certain to sleep like a harmless, _dreamless_ little rock.

She did, of course. After stumbling to her cabin, her limbs on fire from over-exertion, Daena collapsed into a newly-dressed bed fully clothed and woke the next morning without any memory of dreams or nightmares. She sighed with relief as she tried to roll out of bed and groaned when every muscle in her body screamed in protest. Her head pounded at her temples, and her dry throat felt ravaged. She was fairly certain she had been trampled by a horse in her sleep. 

It was then she realized she had forgotten to eat and rehydrate after her extensive training. As if sensing her distress, a savior arrived at her door with a tray of delights. 

“Not going to inquire if I’m decent before barging into my room?” Daena teased lightly when the Iron Bull admitted himself without so much as a quick knock. 

“You see me without a shirt every day, Boss. Fair is fair.” Daena clutched at the pain in her sides as she laughed heartily. “You worked your ass off yesterday. Figured you needed this.”

He set down a tray piled high with ram jerky, hard cheese, a couple of boiled eggs, an entire loaf of bread, and a variety of berries and sliced apples. If she wasn’t so dehydrated, her dry mouth would be salivating. 

“You figured right,” she answered hoarsely as she reached for the mug that accompanied the tray. She knew it would be water, and for once, she was grateful for it. 

“What happened in here?” he asked, his keen eye surveying the scorch marks on the wall beside her bed. 

“Hm? Oh, just a small fire,” she lied. “The candle tipped over a couple nights ago and set the linens ablaze. The flames must have grazed the walls.” Daena kept her eyes down and her face buried in her mug. If anyone could sniff out a lie, it was a Ben-Hassrath. 

The Iron Bull simply grunted and Daena released an inaudible sigh. She changed the subject by requesting a story of the Chargers’ adventures. He eagerly complied and launched into a tale involving his right hand man, Krem, and a slew of rambunctious nugs.

“Give me a half hour, and I’ll be ready to go again today,” Daena said as she finished the last bite of apple. “Make sure your Chargers are ready,” she added with a smirk.

“I don’t think so, Boss. You need a day off.”

“Fuck that, I’m fine.” Daena moved the tray and tried to stand, doing her best to hide the grimace that resulted from sore, stiff limbs. 

“You’re gonna break if you keep on like this. You need to let your body heal,” he asserted as he firmly, but respectfully, pushed her back down onto the bed.

“I know what I can handle, Bull.”

“I don’t think you do,” he replied bluntly. “Besides, we’re under strict orders not to train with you today.”

“Whose orders?” Daena scoffed. 

“The Seeker’s.”

“Son-of-a-bitch” Daena growled and clenched her fist. “You call me ‘Boss.’ You take orders from me.”

“Not today.” The Iron Bull collected the empty tray and made for the door. “Sorry, Boss. If you need a drink, you know where to find me.” Without any sign of true remorse, he was gone. 

Daena quickly learned that Cassandra had indeed issued an order to anyone who could wield a blade that they were not to train with her. _The Herald needs her rest_. She decided to steer clear of the Seeker, lest she engage her in combat, willing participant or not. 

Walking the village was difficult at first due to the almost crippling soreness in her legs, but her muscles soon warmed, and the stiffness became more tolerable. She eventually found herself outside the village, close to the camp where the bulk of the mages had been settled.

“How is everyone settling in?” Daena asked one of the Senior Enchanters. 

“Well, it’s bloody cold out here for one,” he snapped. “We could use more blankets, more wood for fires, and more tents. Some of our people are grouped five or six to a tent.” The Enchanter went on and on with a list of demands and necessities while Daena nodded attentively. 

“I know just the person to assist you with your concerns,” Daena offered diplomatically, a sly smirk forming on her lips. “Reach out to Seeker Pentaghast directly, and she will help you with whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Lady Herald.” The Senior Enchanter bowed courteously and turned to direct a younger mage to fetch a quill and parchment. 

Daena brushed her hands together as a gesture of a job well done, and headed back toward the village.

* * *

Daena spent the rest of the day next to an open fire, listening to Varric’s tales. He told her stories of dragons and lost treasure, of betrayals and fights to the death. He told her of the many exploits of the Champion of Kirkwall, and she listened in wonder as she imagined everything happening a mere stone’s throw from where she had lived in the Gallows.

At the mention of a certain mage that had sparked the rebellion, Daena’s stomach turned.

 _Anders_.

Although the mention of his name left her feeling uneasy, she found she was not as angry at him as she once was. No doubt his actions were heinous, and she’d never personally support them. But without him, she would be dead. The Circles might still be standing, but only barely. The Order was already on the verge of collapse, and the explosion was merely the catalyst for change. Without it, something else, perhaps something even worse, might have happened in its place. 

“What happened to the mage, to Anders?” Daena asked passively. 

“No one really knows. After the explosion, Hawke sent him away, said she never wanted to see him again. I suspect he went into hiding. I heard rumors he traveled to the other Circles recruiting mages as their homes fell one by one, but that was years ago.”

Daena hummed thoughtfully and reached for Varric’s flask. She tilted her head back as she took a long swig.

“Easy, Glow Worm. I’m almost out, and you might need some tomorrow after you tackle the Breach,” he chuckled.

“Oh right,” she sighed. “That.” She looked up to the darkened sky as she pulled her cloak tightly around herself and felt a rumble in her stomach. “I better grab a bite and hit the sack.”

Daena had no interest in sleeping, and after grabbing a hunk of bread and cheese from the tavern, she headed for the lake. Without the shades of dawn to offer her one blissful moment of normalcy, the surface of the lake acted as a mirror against the green-tinted sky. She was trapped between two Breaches, and the weight of it did her anxiety no favors. 

But she was alone, and it was quiet. It was the only true comfort she could expect anymore. 

“It is peaceful here,” came a voice from behind her. Daena flinched at the interruption and turned to find a figure silhouetted by the light coming from the village. For a moment, the face of her interloper was cloaked in darkness, but the deep, calm voice gave him away. 

“It can be,” she replied with a sigh. She turned away from Solas to focus on the soft ripples that brushed across the surface of the lake. 

“You come here often,” he stated, moving to stand beside her. His presence usually had a calming effect on her. He had fascinated her with stories of the Fade and of his culture on many occasions, and she had listened, completely spellbound by the passion he clearly felt on the subjects. But at the moment, in her sleep-deprived and irritated state, she found his confident air and apparent knowledge of her whereabouts a bit unnerving. 

“Was there something you needed, Solas?” she asked with forced politeness. 

“Not at all.” Solas bowed his head slightly and turned to leave. “Apologies for the intrusion, Herald.”

“Wait.” She caught his arm. “I’m being an arse. I’m just tired.” She managed a small curl of her lips, and in the faint light coming from the village beyond, she could see an answering smile in return. 

“You’ve had trouble sleeping,” he asserted, and she was quickly tiring of his accurate assumptions. 

“I guess you could say that, “ she conceded. For a moment, Solas said nothing. He simply stared, studying her. She couldn’t hope to guess what he was looking for or what he expected to find. As the seconds ticked by, she grew more anxious under his scrutiny and shifted her weight from foot to foot until he finally turned to glance over the lake. 

“I’ve walked the Fade here,” he said, staring at something far off in the distance. “I’ve told you of other places I have walked, how I’ve witnessed the lives of the people who lived there. I’ve seen their happiness and their tragedies. Here, the Breach makes it difficult to see. It casts a glare, blinding as the sun. But the stories are there. I still see them.”

“How far back can you see?” she asked tentatively.

“Generations, in some cases.”

“And what have you seen here?” Solas remained quiet for a moment and then turned his eyes on her, squinting slightly as if deciding whether or not to share his experience.

“I’ve seen a young girl, desperate and afraid for her life. I’ve seen the storm inside her and the tragedy that follows in its destructive wake.” Daena’s eyes widened as each word fell from his lips. Her heart pounded furiously against her ribcage, and she fought the urge to run. “I’ve also seen a young woman,” he continued. “She is strong and compassionate. But she is afraid of losing control again, of hurting those she cares about.”

Daena’s mouth hung open, words elusive as the visions of her many nightmares came into renewed clarity in her mind. Her head turned slowly from side to side as she tried to determine just how much the Fade had revealed of her past. Had he associated her with the little girl? Was the full extent of her destruction clear in the warped perception of the Fade?

“You are not to blame for what happened,” Solas offered sympathetically, and she had her answer. Giving into the urge to flee, Daena turned on her heel fast enough to make her head swim dizzily. His next words, however, halted her retreating steps. “I can help you with your nightmares.”

“What?” she breathed as she turned to face him again. He stood calmly by the edge of the lake, his hands clasped behind his back. He took a single step closer, careful to remain at a comfortable distance. 

“I can help you,” he repeated.

“You’re mistaken,” she blurted. Her curiosity flared at his offer, but the panic she felt at being confronted by someone who had witnessed her darkest moments was more immediate. “I should get some rest.” She continued her retreat, and Solas did not stop her. 

Instead of veering to the left toward her cabin, however, Daena hooked a right and succumbed to the soft lighting and relative peace of the tavern. The hour was late and most people had already left to find their beds. Those who hadn’t were either passed out drunk or nearly so. She spotted Sera sprawled in a tiny heap under one of the tables, snoring softly. 

The bartender had also retired for the night. After grabbing an empty tankard and filling a pitcher with ale, she dropped a few coppers on the counter and took a seat on a vacant bench near the warmth of the hearth. 

Daena had kept her darkest secret from all but one person in her life. Even Isabela never knew the full truth. She had learned to live with the memory of what she had done, her nightmares serving as a frequent reminder until she didn’t have them anymore. After years of living in the Circles and then going into hiding as a smuggler, she ended up back in Haven, a place she never expected to see again. The nightmares had returned, and Solas knew more about her than she was comfortable with. 

The ale went down as easily as water, and when the pitcher was empty, she refilled it, dropped a few more coppers on the counter, and returned to her place near the fire. It wasn’t until three pitchers in that she felt the appeasing haze of drunk she was aiming for. She stared blurry-eyed into the dancing flames as if she was peering into the future. There was nothing to see but death, destruction, and misery. 

Maybe Solas could help her deal with the dreams, just as Isabela had. Maybe not. Daena didn’t know him well enough to judge his sincerity, but he had seemed genuine. And he was more knowledgeable of the Fade than anyone she had ever met. 

Perhaps she would hear him out, let him help her. But not tonight. Tonight was for drinking.


End file.
